


Give This Boy a Beautiful View

by barricadebutts



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst with a bittersweet ending (but that's why we epilogue guys), Explicit sexual content in part 2, FYI no there is no major character death, Infidelity (it's titanic guys), M/M, Mentions of suicide & a nongraphic attempt, Period typical homophobia from the surrounding adults, This largely follows the plot points of James Cameron's Titanic so take heed guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23133355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadebutts/pseuds/barricadebutts
Summary: Alright, so Tom Blake is a gambler, but he only bets on things that he’s sure will produce lucrative returns. Like now, for instance: he’s engaged in a game of poker for the low entry fee of a few pounds where one of the prizes currently in the pot is two third-class tickets aboard the Titanic. The ship leaves for New York in about two hours. He has nothing but a week and a half’s worth of pay in the pot in exchange for the chance at a new life.Or: a self-indulgent Titanic AU with all the yearning and angst but with none of the tragic death
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 40
Kudos: 183





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wow Taylor, back at it again with the au  
> This idea took form probably a month ago when the discord was jokingly talking about a 1917 titanic au. As you can see, I didn't catch the joke part.  
> Because I am physically incapable of writing truly angsty/sad things (as evidenced by my struggling to write the last chapter), this will not have a major character death in it. I'm sorry, I physically can't kill one of them even if it is a Titanic au.  
> This thing will be three chapters and an epilogue if only because there's a fair bit of nsfw content in chapter 2, and I want to give people the option to skip that if they feel uncomfortable.  
> Anyway, this title is from yet another Dermot Kennedy song, "Without Fear", which is such a mood for this fic (you know, minus the feminine pronouns). Give it a listen if you want to capture the mood.  
> So much love to > [ Alexis ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imagineyesterday) and > [ Nevermore ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisingShadows/pseuds/RisingShadows) who read through this for me, as well as the entire 1917 discord.  
>  Juliet made me a moodboard for this fic, and it's beyond gorgeous, so check that out > [ here ](https://carryonmyhomoson.tumblr.com/post/613595198909546496/give-this-boy-a-beautiful-view-by-barricadebutts-x)

_'Lovin' thoughts livin' in my young mind / Give this boy a beautiful view / And tell him, "Without fear, now" / "Without fear, now"'_

-"Without Fear", Dermot Kennedy

Alright, so Tom Blake is a gambler, but he only bets on things that he’s sure will produce lucrative returns. Like now, for instance: he’s engaged in a game of poker for the low entry fee of a few pounds. He’s not sweating the potential loss of his money too much, but one of the prizes currently in the pot is two third-class tickets aboard the Titanic, which leaves for New York in about two hours. He has nothing but a week and a half’s worth of pay in the pot in exchange for the chance at a new life.

The game in question, poker, is one in which Tom is pretty competent. Back on the farm, Joe taught him how to play so well that he eventually surpassed him, beating him by the time Tom left for art school. Part of the hustle is buying in for so little; the others won’t think he’s as good if he doesn’t want to lose a sizable amount. Cooke, one of his friends and classmates, looks on in barely concealed excitement.

As the clock ticks closer to Titanic’s departure time, the stakes start to add up. Tom’s learned from one of the best though, so he keeps his face neutral as others begin to fold.

In a stroke of what Tom might consider fate, he completes a full house, laying down his cards and watching as the other men stare, dumbfounded. Before he can be pummeled, he collects his winnings, including the two tickets, and grabs Cooke by the wrist, still cheering much to the other men’s chagrin.

The docks aren’t too far from their current location, so Tom and Cooke race through the streets, swerving around cars and pedestrians. When they’re about a block away, the huge, hulking form of Titanic begins to come into view. It’s massive, bigger and grander than Tom’s ever seen in his twenty years, and he’s about to be on it. As they grow closer, the throng of people becomes denser, so Tom and Cooke take in the view as best as they can while navigating their way to the embarkation building, their meager belongings clutched tightly in their hands. 

This poker game was a last-minute thing, so Tom’s got a few changes of clothes, most of his savings and his more portable art supplies all shoved into a case. He’ll write his mother and Joe when he gets to New York, wire them money to visit once he tracks down a job and a place to stay. It’ll be grand.

Through it all, Cooke can’t stop gawking at their surroundings and making quips about all the fancy first-class passengers who are very clearly going through a different boarding process. With them in the wide-open room are a lot of people who look like them-- worn clothing and few belongings. In the grand scheme of things, it would make sense that there were more third-class than first-class passengers. Something about money and tightly packed spaces, no doubt.

Once onboard, they find their stateroom practically in the bowels of the ship. It’s a small room with four beds and a small porthole at eye level, enough to prevent total claustrophobia. There’s already one man inside sitting on one of the bottom bunks, and he looks at Tom and Cooke, startled. Clearly he had been waiting for the other two men Tom had won the tickets from.

“Sorry, mate,” Cooke speaks up before the man can say anything. “Looks like you’re stuck with us. Maybe you should write those other blokes and tell them to brush up on their poker skills.” Tom elbows Cooke in the stomach to shut him up before they make enemies with one of their roommates so soon into the trip. The other man remains silent though, seemingly stewing over the change of plans.

The room is cramped, there’s no disputing that fact, and while Tom doesn’t have anything against small spaces, he can tell that if he spends much more time than necessary in here, he very well might develop an issue. The mere thought has him throwing his case up on the top bunk, Cooke right below him, and grabbing his portfolio with its enclosed sketchpad and pencil before dragging Cooke out of the room and up to the open air.

They emerge onto C deck as the ship’s horn starts to sound, alerting everyone in the surrounding area to their impending departure. The sheer jubilance of the atmosphere is contagious if Tom’s being honest. He and Cooke crowd to a railing waving excitedly at the pedestrians below waving their handkerchiefs in farewell. In all of his twenty years, Tom doesn’t think he’s ever felt this light. 

Outside on the deck, the sun is shining for once, as if God were giving Titanic and her passengers a particularly special send off-- the breeze blowing as the ship begins to sail out of port. People crowding the rails begin to disperse not long after, keen to explore all that the ship has to offer. Several others stroll around the perimeter of the different decks, taking in the panoramic views of the Southampton coast.

Cooke and Tom prop themselves up on two lounge chairs, watching as the ship picks up speed in the fading daylight.

Since Tom’s got his sketchpad with him, he takes advantage of the people milling about at the railings. He sketches Cooke’s profile at one point too, but then again, he’s always sketching Cooke. Cooke’s always there, in classes, at the park, over at his crowded flat-- he’s always there with him with his broad forehead and big ears. The other boy doesn’t mind though, content to play the muse. Now, for instance, Cooke has his face buried in a book he’d stolen from the school’s library-- stolen only in the sense that he’ll never be returning it now.

The light is fading by the time that something different catches Tom’s eye. From where they’re sitting, they’ve got a view of A deck, where a lot of the first-class passengers have been milling around. Quite a few of them sport large hats and bright-colored clothing. Even now, what catches his eyes is a wide-brimmed white hat with purple foliage adorning it, sitting atop the head of a pretty enough petite young woman.

Next to her though, the man on to which she’s holding, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else than there, stares morosely out to the sea above Tom’s head.

In the fading sunlight, Tom can see that the boy is tall with darker hair. He can’t tell the color of his eyes from this distance, but what he can tell is how big the accompanying bags are beneath them. Above everything else, Tom thinks that the guy has _sad eyes,_ and he instantly wants to know everything about him. He wants to know why he looks so sad-- wants to hurt whoever made him like that.

Tom is no stranger to his attraction to men, has nothing to fear from it other than uninformed people who don’t understand. There have been others in the past, Cooke among them once or twice, but none so instantly intriguing as this boy with dark hair and sad eyes. This boy with sad eyes is in first-class though; Tom will likely never see him again.

The party that Mr. Sad Eyes is a part of stops at the railing almost perpendicular to where he and Cooke are sitting, so Tom takes advantage of the situation, leaving Cooke’s portrait abandoned to roughly sketch out a poor rendition of this new boy. It’s nowhere near good enough when the party moves away, but Cooke leans over to get a look and gives Tom an amused smirk.

“Who’s that supposed to be?”

“Hmm? Just a passenger. I’ve not been drawing your ugly mug this entire time.” He tries to brush it off, but they know each other too well by now.

“I know that,” Cooke squawks. “The others haven’t been that detailed though. I’ve been watching.”

Chancing a glance down at his page again, Tom realizes that this stranger _does_ have a lot more detail than a lot of the other small figures he’d been drawing. Just to double-check, he flips back a few pages. Yep, Mr. Sad Eyes has significantly more detail than the rest with particular attention paid to what he could make out of his face.

Tom fights a rising blush and scoffs. “Mind your business, Cooke. Don’t you have a book to read?”

Cooke laughs to himself, but half of it gets lost in the wind. By the time that Tom looks up again to A deck, the boy and his party are gone, lost back to the lap of luxury.

  
  
  
The rest of the night and much of the next day passes with little fanfare. Tom and Cooke meet a few other third-class passengers to drink with, and they have a merry time.

The night of the first full day they have at sea turns interesting though. Tom’s taking a walk around the deck, the chill of the night air biting at his cheeks and nose-- the blood that flows to them making him look a picture of youthful innocence. He’s sure the cigarette hanging out of his mouth, smoke alternating between curling upwards and being blown away as quickly as it comes in the gusty wind, neutralizes the sentiment.

B deck is nearly empty, the cold weather and blustery wind no doubt a contender in peoples’ wishes to stay inside. A few crewmen stand at the railings near the bridge smoking their own cigarettes, faces tucked into their scarves and heads covered in wool caps. Most of the passengers remain inside in the dining halls, dance rooms, or smoke rooms sipping expensive champagne and wine in their stupidly lavish clothing. Tom might join the carefree third-class passengers dancing and drinking in a bit, but there would be time for that later. When will he ever get the chance to look out at the dark North Atlantic with its unobstructed stars and moon, again? He’ll take his chances in the cold for a few minutes.

The wind gusts differently at the back of the ship, the thin coat Tom wears opening under its onslaught. A shiver passes through his body, the cigarette balancing precariously on his lips while he pulls his jacket closed.

When he looks up, a figure stands maybe ten or fifteen feet away, back to him as they look out towards the ocean from the railing at the stern. As he gets closer, the person at the rail becomes slightly clearer, and Tom realizes that not only is it a man-- young by the look of his stature-- but that he’s not in fact on the side of the railing he should be.

Tom tries to yell at him, to get the guy’s attention, but his voice either gets lost in the wind, or the guy is purposely ignoring him. He gets closer still, coming up from the side so as not to accidentally startle the man off the ledge.

The guy is still, so still, Tom would think him to be asleep or already dead, a corpse simply propped against the railing, if his hands weren’t clenched to keep his balance over the water.

Up close now as Tom finally makes contact with the railing, he realizes the guy is Mr. Sad Eyes from the previous day. Up close, he looks incredibly young, younger than he had out on A deck with that girl holding on to him. Perhaps he’s only a few years older than himself. The stranger’s eyes go wide, his head swiveling when he catches sight of Tom in his periphery. Tom collects himself, focusing on the now with this guy hanging off the back of the ship. He desperately doesn’t want to him, to be the reason that he loses his balance and falls into the icy water below.

A part of Tom thinks that this guy doesn’t want to actually die because he’s still on the railing, has been for several minutes now. He’s in evening dinner attire-- doesn’t even have a proper coat on. If this guy really truly wanted to die, he would have jumped by now, surely. To hesitate would be to risk someone coming after him, pulling him back to the dining table, back to upper society. This guy’s hands are practically glued to the rail though, clenched as if he’s afraid to fall.

“Nice night we’re having, isn’t it?”

The guy’s eyebrows furrow, drawing together as if to say _‘What? Can’t you see what I’m about to do?’_

Tom leans heavily on the railing, peering over the side to stare into the dark water below. The light from the moon reflects off the black water, reflects off where it churns out from where the propellers push it back, hidden from view. It’s a _long_ way down.

“Say, that’s a long way down if you slip. Why don’t you come back over the railing and we can talk about this civilly.” A particularly strong gust of wind ruffles the guy’s hair and dinner jacket. His hands flex around the railing, tightening against the movement of the wind.

“Who says I want to come back over?” It’s defiant in content, but unsure in tone. His voice shakes just enough for Tom to hear. While unsure, Tom isn’t completely sure if this guy is bluffing or trying to psych himself up to follow through. Tom needs to be sure it’s the former.

It’s a risk but, “I think if you were not gonna come back over, you would’ve jumped by now. So why don’t you just come on back over the rail and we’ll both go back inside.” There’s a very real possibility that the guy lets go at that moment to prove Tom wrong, but he doesn’t.

He tears his gaze from Tom’s eyes to glance back at the water and closes them before tilting his head up to the sky to breathe. When he’s caught his breath, he looks back to Tom, his gaze scared. “I can’t go back inside. I can’t go to America.”

Tom quirks an eyebrow, confused at how the two could possibly be related. “Why’s that?” He inches closer to where the other boy has his hands clutching at the railing, preparing himself in the event that he tries to jump.

“There’s a woman…” he trails off for a moment, and Tom nearly rolls his eyes. _Of course, it’s about a woman-- probably the one he’d been on deck with._ “There’s a woman but--but I don’t love her even though I’m meant to marry her. I don’t love her, will never love her as she deserves, and she doesn’t deserve that. It’s done though, so this is my only option.”

Tom takes in the new information. Not about a woman in _that_ sense then. Okay. This boy looks scared-- more scared than a second ago before he had started talking. _Oh._

“So your options are to marry her or kill yourself?” The guy flinches at Tom’s words, but he needs to hear them. Tom gets the loathing of the prospect of marrying a person you didn’t love, but the automatic other option isn’t _suicide_. “You know plenty of marriages have arrangements, right? Not every husband and wife are madly in love with each other? Men cheat on their wives with other women and men, and women do the same. You don’t have to kill yourself, mate.”

The other boy’s face scrunches into something sour like Tom’s just struck a nerve. He doesn’t care at the moment. It’s not like he’s talking about something he knows nothing about.

“You don’t understand--”

“No, I understand _exactly._ Killing yourself isn’t going to solve anything for you _or_ her. This is on her too if you do this.”

The thought must be sobering because something in this boy’s eyes clears. Tom doesn’t know if it’s the subtle confirmation he’s just given him in regards to his own private life, or if it’s the implication that his fiance will be blamed for his death, but he doesn’t care right now as long as it gets this guy back from the ledge.

“What’s your name anyway?” Tom’s gotta have something to call this guy after the ordeal he’s putting him through. ‘Mr. Sad Eyes won’t do it for long.

“William. Will, actually.”

“Well, Will, my name’s Tom. Now, why don’t I help you back over here, okay? No one has to know what happened here tonight.”

For a moment, Will hesitates, and Tom thinks that maybe he hasn’t won this battle yet after all. He relents though, slowly shifting his body so that he’s facing Tom head-on. From this angle, Tom can see all of Will’s face, see how scared and tired he looks, bags indeed as large as he had first seen, more prominent than they should be of someone who likely wants for nothing. His hair, likely once carefully styled at the beginning of the night is now sufficiently windblown, creating a look that Tom finds way too attractive. His nose and cheeks are also red from the wind and cold. He can’t be more than a few years older than himself.

A shaky exhale of air that almost sounds relieved, escapes from Will’s mouth as if the act of turning around was a feat, an accomplishment. The two of them are very close like this, and if Will weren’t still hanging off the back of a ship, perhaps Tom would be tempted to do something. 

The following events seem to happen in slow motion over the next few moments. When Will goes to lift his foot onto one of the rungs running parallel to the top of the railing, his foot must catch on the shoelace of the stationary foot, because suddenly he’s slipping. It’s a miracle that Tom is still so close to Will, that he was already inches from grabbing onto him because it means that he’s close enough to lunge and grab hold of Will’s suit jacket lapel and arm.

They freeze for a few very long seconds as Will half-hangs off the edge of the ship. The hand that’s not in Tom’s grip is clasped to the run right below the top, one foot still firmly on the ledge, the other hanging a few feet below in open air.

Will’s eyes find Tom’s, wide and frightened at how close he has just come to death-- could still come if Tom doesn’t help pull him up quickly before his sudden burst of adrenaline abandons him.

“I’m gonna pull you up, okay? You gotta help me though.” Tom’s not sure what level his voice is at this point; he could just as likely be shouting as he could be whispering. All of the external stimuli surrounding him fades as Tom and Will work to get the latter back over the side of the ship.

Thankfully, Will finds his footing once more to climb over under his own power. Tom doesn’t remove his hands from Will’s body though until he’s over the railing and crouched over where Tom’s fallen on his back from the momentum of propelling him to safety.

They sit there, entirely too far into each other’s space, breathing hard, for longer than socially acceptable, but Tom can’t move or make Will get up. Where Tom has since propped himself up with his arms, they give out now, adrenaline sufficiently used. He collapses against the deck with a surprised, “oomph” before letting loose a laugh bordering on manic. Will makes a questioning and concerned noise before he withdraws from atop Tom to lay on his back next to him, catching his breath as well.

Will’s face is incredibly close again as Tom turns his head to just look, but it’s a different feeling this time. Gazing at Will like this, Tom is almost able to forget that they’ve only just met in rather bleak circumstances.

There’s nothing to say, especially when Will turns his curious eyes back to the sky, the smoke from the smokestacks partially obscuring the moon and the stars every so often as the wind waxes and wanes. After what can’t be more than a few minutes, the sound of feet stomping across the wooden deck planks prompts them to sit up. Sure enough, it’s a few ship’s officers followed by a few well-dressed people-- two women and a man if Tom trusts his vision. Will must see them too, must recognize them because he scrambles to his feet quicker than Tom has seen him move all night.

One of the women, the younger one that Tom realizes is the one who hung on to Will’s arm two days prior, runs forward, past the leading officer, and into Will. It’s clear that he’s taken aback by the movement and action, the strength of the hug knocking him back a foot before he wraps his arms around her in a loose hug. After a moment, Tom thinks that this must be the fiance that Will’s almost killed himself over.

Will doesn’t bury his face into her hair or tell her everything’s fine like one might do in a situation where they were happy and relieved to see the other person. Instead, Will’s stare burns into Tom’s own, causing goosebumps to prickle along his arms.

Before he can read too much into it, Tom is yanked roughly around each arm, a quick glance informing him that an officer had hold of him on either side. He lets out a startled, “Hey, what?!” At the same time as Will starts to push away from his fiance. 

“What are you doing with him? He didn’t do anything!”

The man that’s with them, the one in dinner attire like the two women, speaks up, his voice deep and authoritative. Tom wonders about his connection to Will. “We have eye witness reports that this boy tried to throw you off the rear of the ship, William. What would you like us to do, throw him a celebration?” The man scoffs in amusement and the older woman next to him just tuts. Will is a naive child in their eyes, it seems. Tom thinks that these must be the people who put that morose look in his eyes. 

“This _boy_ saved my life! I was looking over the edge after I came outside to get some air, and I tripped. He was there to catch me; if he hadn’t I’d be at the bottom of the North Atlantic by now. Let him go, he did nothing but make sure you still have a line to Grace’s money.”

Vitriolic. That’s the word Tom would use to describe how Will sounded at that moment. He had looked to the older woman as he uttered the last bit-- most likely his mother then. The young woman no longer hugging him, but still standing close, must be Grace.

The officer not holding Tom then turns to him, questioning and strict. “Is this true?”

Tom nods frantically, he can’t go to jail once they dock in New York. Even though the story Will tells is largely true, Tom finds that he’d agree with anything Will said if it meant safety.

The same officer nods and motions to the two men holding Tom who in turn releases his arms. A silent sigh of relief leaves Tom as the officer in charge quietly discusses something with Will’s mother, turning to Will before leaving.

“Next time, be more careful. Won’t do you any good to try getting off the ship before we get to New York.” And with that, the officers walk back in the direction of the bridge, or wherever else they had come from.

Now that the situation is sufficiently defused, Tom gives an involuntary shiver as a gust passes through the small gathering of people. Will glances over at Tom, holding his gaze for too long to not follow it with words. Tom thinks that maybe he’s going to say something, but before he gets the chance to, his mother clears her throat. 

“Come along, William. People will start to wonder.” She gives him a long look before narrowing her eyes at Tom and walking away. Grace waits until Will tears his eyes from Tom’s face to walk with him back in the direction of the other first-class passengers.

Without Will’s eyes on him, Tom feels colder, as preposterous as a notion like that is. Eyes don’t carry physical warmth, and Tom doesn’t know Will. He thinks for a moment that he might have never known him if Tom hadn’t decided to go for a walk. Even now though, he won’t know Will because Will’s own social station is miles above Tom’s own. The Blakes are farmers-- he’s willing to bet Will’s family is not.

He watches Will and his people disappear back inside before continuing his walk of the deck. Only now though, Tom doesn’t have the heart or the energy to spend much longer in the freezing air, so he heads back inside and down to the party likely still raging on the third-class deck. At least there he can attempt to get drunk enough to try and push Will from his mind.

When Tom gets back to his cramped stateroom, he finds Cooke sitting outside with the door closed, smoking a cigarette and scribbling words down in his thin notebook. Tom would think he was locked out if he wasn’t notorious for sitting outside of crowded rooms and either journaling or reading. The noise, according to Cooke, hurt his head and made it hard to concentrate on what he was trying to read or write.

“What’s it tonight?” Tom asks him as he grows closer.

Cooke looks up, startled, and nearly drops his cigarette. “Just writing about how I could be a better writer than Dickens. ‘Get said what needs to get said in half the words.”

Tom rolls his eyes, smile ever-present on his face. Cooke’s always going on about how he’d be able to write The Greats’ novels better than they had. “I’m sure you rambling on about it in your diary’ll show them.” He pokes, shuffling past him to stick his key in the door.

He doesn’t receive a response to his statement, but he does get a careful look from Cooke before Tom has the chance to push the door open. “And where were you? You look a little windblown.”

Self-consciously, Tom pats his hair down, smooths out his jacket. He wonders if his face is still flushed from the cold. “I was up on the deck, walking.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, and really it shouldn’t have been if everything had gone to plan.

"Not looking for that first-class bloke again?”

“Oh piss off,” Tom mutters before shoving into the stateroom.

That next morning, Cooke leaves Tom after breakfast to cavort with one of the other boys they had previously met. Tom should hang with them, he really should, but he just can’t help trying to find Will again.

Judging by the confrontation from his family the night before, Tom figures they won’t be happy to see them together, but Tom needs to find him-- get more out of him. 

And then Tom spots Will leaning against the ship railing up on the boat deck listening to a plump woman with a large hat on, prattle on about something. As opposed to the last couple of times he’d seen Will, he didn’t look miserable for once. Perhaps because this wasn’t his mother or that other man.

Tom can pinpoint the minute Will sees him climbing the stairs because his face visibly lifts, the sun shining unobstructed onto his face. If Tom had thought he’d looked ethereal in the moonlight, Will looks downright angelic in the sun. Where the sun shines on his dark hair, it illuminates into something lighter, almost golden blond.

The smile that graces Will’s own face is infectious. By the time he gets over to him and the other woman, Tom is smiling as well.

“So, I want to introduce you to one of the few people who’s traveling with my family that I _can_ stand. This is Molly Brown. Molly, this is Tom…” He trails off for a moment, and Tom realizes the issue.

“Tom Blake. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Brown.” Tom shuffles his portfolio to his other arm and holds his hand out to shake.

Molly. _Ms. Brown_ just laughs and waves his hand away. “Nonsense. You can call me Molly.” The American accent surprises Tom, but he does his best not to show it. She turns to Will and smiles. “I appreciate you throwing in that caveat of you being able to stand me.”

“Well, Tom had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting my mother and Edward last night. I thought it might please him to know I don’t hate all of you.”

Molly looks on fondly and sucks at her teeth. “Well, I’ll leave you boys alone.” Before she turns to leave though, she looks to Will as if to warn him of something. “I’m afraid that once I get back to your mother, you probably won’t have much time before someone comes to find you.” Will sighs, obviously put out. “Oh honey, you know they will. I’ll hold them off for as long as I can.”

Will nods, resigned. “Thank you. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“It was nice to meet you, Tom.”

“Likewise. Good day, Ms. Molly.” He can’t help the formality, even if it’s still halfway casual. She clearly senses such as well, but she just smiles and pats his shoulder before making her leave.

After she’s descended the stairs, Tom watches Will relax, his shoulders slumping and the fake smile sliding off his face. An easy and more comfortable one replaces it, making Tom’s chest tighten.

“Who’s Edward?”

“Edward’s the oh so pleasant man you met last night. He’s my future brother-in-law who has never liked me. I try to avoid him at all costs, but it’s difficult to do on a ship.”

Tom hums in understanding. They’re still standing up against the railing enjoying a bit of seclusion. It’s an odd thing to see Will in the sunlight when he’s only glimpsed him in the darkness prior.

He watches as Will’s eyes drift down his form, lingering for a beat on the portfolio in Tom’s arm. “I wanted to thank you again for last night. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been there.” His eyes drift back up to Tom’s and linger there, a half-smile on his lips trying to convey gratefulness.

The sudden tightness that fills his chest at Will’s thanks is borderline too much. If Tom hadn’t taken that walk, if he hadn’t thought to approach the guy leaning against the railing, if he hadn’t been so quick to grab onto him as he slipped. The sheer amount of ‘what-ifs’ that paint their initial meeting are suddenly staggering. 

“I guess I was just meant to be there.”

A beat of loaded silence passes before Will speaks again. “Are you an artist?” he asks, gesturing this time to the portfolio tucked under Tom’s arm.

“Uh, yeah. Well, a student, really. I’m hoping to continue once we get to America. Don’t know where I’ll go yet-- maybe stay in New York.” He’s rambling. Will doesn’t need to know all this, but he seems to take it in stride anyway.

“Can I see some of your work?”

The request takes a minute to sink in, but once it hits, Tom’s fumbling with the book. “If you’d like. These are mostly sketches, keep in mind.” Tom moves to stand next to Will rather than remaining in front of him so he can better watch him flip through the drawings.

“I’m sure they’re a lot better than anything I could come up with.” And then he’s opening the book, and Tom realizes all too late that the sketch of Will is still in there, tucked a few pages back so that it wouldn’t fall out. Maybe he’ll stop flipping before he gets that far. Doubtful.

With bated breath, Tom watches as he flips through the gestures and half-finished figures of other passengers.

Then there’s a sketch of Cooke, and another, and-- _wow he really does draw his friend a lot._ Tom scratches at the back of his neck, aware of what it probably looks like. Will must also get that feeling, because he looks at Tom, a hint of a smile on his face.

“Who’s this? He’s in here like five times.”

Tom feels his face heat. “Oh, he’s just my mate. Charlie Cooke. I won two tickets in a poker game, so he was my plus one.” Yep, that didn’t make it any better.

Apparently Will doesn’t think so either. “Were you two ever… you know.”

 _Oh, Will_. “Not anymore. A long time ago, but--” Will’s looking at Tom as he flips to the next page, which just so happens to be the sketch of Will. His falter in speech is just enough, his vision just focused enough on the book in front of Will to draw the latter’s eye to it.

Will’s silent for a moment, no doubt taking in the page in front of him. “Is this me?”

“Uh… yeah. The other day when the boat was setting sail, I was drawing passengers. And then you walked into my line of view.” Tom isn’t watching the page, but rather Will’s reaction to it, watching for the subtle shift as he takes in the information that Tom tells him.

When he’s finished and looks up at Tom, Will’s face is _very_ close to his own. So close that it would be so easy to lean in and kiss away that awed look in his eyes. He sees the way that Will’s eyes flicker from Tom’s own then shift down to his lips--repeating as if it were some kind of mantra.

There are no passengers mulling around them either-- how easy it’d be. Distantly, Tom wonders if Will’s family watched the way their son, fiance, brother-in-law, watched Tom the night prior. Did they see the attraction written plainly on his face? Tom thinks he sees it now, standing as close as they are.

Right as Will begins to open his mouth, surely something weighty on his tongue, a horribly proper-sounding: “William!” emanates from across the deck to where they’re standing. From this close, Tom can see every minute expression change, and he watches now as Will’s eyes fall shut, a sigh escaping through his nose.

Will doesn’t turn towards the voice and its compatriots who are most certainly making their way over, but he does open his eyes again to bore into Tom’s own. “Have dinner with me?”

“What?” That hadn’t been what Tom expected Will to say.

“I need to see you again, and that will give us a chance to escape afterward.”

Tom nods dumbly, mouth open but with no sound coming out. Before he can think of anything to say, the voice has reached them. He tears his eyes away from Will reluctantly and watches from the corner of his eyes as Will does the same.

The same woman from the night before is standing there, along with Grace and Molly. Molly looks regretful, but his mother looks suspicious and all-knowing-- as if she knows exactly what they have been up to. Grace isn’t looking at them, but Tom doesn’t know if that’s because she can deny what she doesn’t see, or if she legitimately doesn’t find interest in the situation. 

“There you are, William. Molly rejoined us and told us you stayed up here in the cold wind. Why on Earth would you do that?”

“I didn’t want to go back into that stuffy lounge quite yet. I was also talking to Tom here. You remember him from last night, right?”

The thinly veiled distaste plainly writ across Will’s mother’s face as she looks him up and down is enough to almost make Tom crack an antagonistic smirk. If he didn’t have more self-control, he might be tempted to say something inappropriate.

“Of course. We’re very grateful, once again.”

“We’re so grateful that I thought we could invite him to dinner tonight. We do have an extra seat, after all, and what better way to share our gratitude?”

“Oh well, we’d have to consult with Edward, and seeing as he’s not here…”

This is, evidently, a touchy subject for Will. “Why? He’s no older than I am. He’s not the man of the house, and he certainly never will be. It’s the least you could do after he rescued your precious dowery.”

Tom notices the faces of both his mother and Grace sour, a nerve struck. _Good_ , Tom thinks. He’s spoken five words to this woman and has already decided he wouldn’t try to rescue her if she’d been about to fall off a ship. Ever the upper society ladies though, they smooth their faces back to normal, his mother looking at Will and Tom down her nose.

“Now is _not_ the time, nor is it the place to speak your mind, William. Thomas may come to dinner, but if he’s wearing that outfit, he will not be dining with us. Are we understood?” She doesn’t wait for either of their responses before practically dragging Grace away.

"You’re wanted in the smoking lounge, William. Do not dawdle,” she calls over her shoulder, not turning again to see if he’s following.

Molly remains to take in the aftermath. Perhaps Will had been correct when he’d said she was the best among them. “I’ve got my son’s belongings with us, Tom. He won’t be joining us until next month. I think you might fit into his clothing better than Will’s. What do you think?”

Pulled from the haze of anger, Tom smiles. “Yes, I think that’d be great. Thank you, Ms. Molly.”

She nods and turns to Will. “You’d best not test your mother. They _are_ looking for you. You’ll see him at dinner, you fool.” Molly’s jest produces a smile from Will as well that warms Tom’s heart.

Regretfully it seems, Will closes the sketchbook and holds it back out to Tom, letting their fingers brush in the handoff. If Tom feels little electric shocks travel up his spine at the contact, then he’ll keep it to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our journey continues.
> 
> So this chapter has a good chunk of nsfw content in it. If that's not your thing, you can skip over it starting with the phrase: “I want whatever you’ll give me, Tom. I just want you.” and hitting Ctrl+f to search for the phrase: "Will lets his head rest against Tom’s temple". If you don't have a problem, have fun with this chapter.
> 
> The rest of this fic is written, so updates should be a little closer together in theory. I've also added the bit of "Without Fear" that I feel fits best with this chapter.
> 
> In addition to the people I mentioned last time, much love for the added support on this chapter from > [ Betsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor) and Alice.

_ "I never questioned, I was acceptin' / Until she stepped in, movin' like beautiful truth / If there were others in that room / I didn't see 'em, babe" _

-"Without Fear", Dermot Kennedy

Dinner turns out to be one giant mistake. Sure, they do manage to find clothes that fit Tom with Molly’s help, but that isn’t ultimately the issue. The issue isn’t that he  _ looks  _ like he could fit in with his black trousers and dinner jacket, starched white shirt, and styled hair— the issue is that he does not belong in the same company as these uppity, first-class people.

Tom’s been instructed to sit across the table from Will, who in turn is bracketed by Grace and his mother. Unfortunately, Edward sits on one side of Tom, Molly thankfully sitting on his other side trying to ease the tension he feels. 

Tom learns that she’s there with her husband, the two of them heading back to New Jersey where they’re originally from. Molly is one of the only Americans Tom has met, and he thinks that the rest of the country can hardly measure up to her. 

At one point, the point Tom will later catalog as the moment in which the whole dinner solidly took a nosedive, Will’s mother turns to Tom and asks in what she probably thinks is a perfectly innocent tone: “So what does your family do, Thomas?”

Tom wills himself not to look down at the table, to remain confident and proud of his background. “My dad isn’t around. My mum’s a farmer, though. She has an orchard. We’re country folk, if you will.” He's all too aware of how he sounds, awkward and wide vowels in comparison to their short and crisp ones. They speak more with the king’s English, and Tom knows they think they’re superior for doing so.

Will’s mother purses her lips, but she doesn’t say anything. “And are you following in their footsteps? What do you do?”

_ Ah, she’s hoping for something else. _ “Well, I’ve actually been studying art for a year and a half. If that doesn’t work out though, I’m sure my mum will be happy to have me home.” If anything, her expression grows cloudier. Thankfully, Will comes to his rescue.

“Do you have any other art with you besides what you showed me earlier on the ship?” The thought that Will sounds so invested in Tom’s art warms his chest, the interest there growing like a small flame.

“A few, if you’re really interested.” 

Will opens his mouth but closes it reluctantly when his mother throws him a scathing look. An unspoken and yearning look from Will to Tom passes between them— a look that says  _ ‘I’m sorry for this’  _ and  _ ‘I wish we could be alone _ ’— and it heats Tom to his core, his back straightening in his chair. He can only imagine how Will’s mother would react to that knowledge.

Until the first course comes, the conversation stays shallow. The real drama starts again as Tom’s covertly trying to read the rules of cutlery off of Molly and her husband. Edward says something that Tom doesn’t hear, which might be a good thing judging by the way Will reacts.

His mother tries to quiet him, throwing fleeting looks at the other patrons of the dining room as if she’s only worried about the image she projects. Will’s off, though. He’s not even raising his voice, but he’s risen from his chair enough to lean over to where Edward is sitting, his face red, fingers clenching tightly into the table cloth.

Confused, Tom turns to Molly to ask what he’s missed, but she discreetly shakes her head and looks down into her wine glass, swirling the liquid before taking a gulp. There isn’t much time to sit around and ponder over what Edward might have said though before Will’s pushing his chair back and throwing his napkin down on the table in contempt. Should Tom also get up? He doesn’t want to risk missing his ticket out if he stays now.

Luckily, Will saves Tom from having to make the decision, because Will looks over at him, eyebrows raised in anticipation. “Tom, you coming?”

“Oh, uh...yeah.” He stands as politely as he can, folding his napkin and setting it gently next to his plate. “Thank you for the dinner invitation once again.” Nodding awkwardly, he gives a quick smile before walking out of the dining room, a step behind Will.

Will doesn’t stop walking once they’re free of the tables of ritzy folk discussing which stocks to invest in or what country club they’ll join in America. He keeps stalking forward until he pushes through a door out into the chill of the setting sun.

Far enough away from other people taking walks, Will turns on Tom and speaks with more emotion than Tom’s heard yet. “I’m just so  _ sick _ of them! They’re so obtuse and have their heads so far up their asses that they have  _ no idea _ what goes on in the world.” Will jerks a hand through his hair, displacing it from where it’s slicked to the side. His hands are shaking as he tries to undo his jacket buttons. He groans in frustration, so Tom makes his move.

Moving closer, Tom settles his hands over Will’s own, drinking in the hitch in Will’s breathing and the way his eyes widen. Tom doesn’t say anything as he unbuttons the jacket buttons, but waits until he’s finished, still close. “I wasn’t paying attention earlier,” Tom murmurs. “Do I want to know what they said in there?”

Will shakes his head, his cheeks heating. Interesting. His hands are warm under Tom’s when he settles his hands over the top of Will’s. 

A subject change is desperately needed right now or Tom might do something he regrets. “I want to show you something. Come with me?” Will could say no, realize Tom and him are on the precipice of something dangerous and choose to retreat back to the safety of his family. Tom desperately doesn’t want him to, but he has to respect his wishes.

Instead, Will smiles, turning his hands over in Tom’s, giving them a firm squeeze. The flame in Tom’s chest grows. “Of course, lead the way.”

Tom leads Will towards the bow of the boat, to the best place he’d found yet on the first day with Cooke. The dining room sits a little further than midway down the ship, but the walk is worth it.

Despite their perceived closeness from the moments prior, Will grows quiet for the first dozen meters or so. Tom watches Will from the corner of his eye— watches as he alternates between sticking his hands in his pockets, only to pull them out moments later. 

For a moment, Tom wonders if maybe he’s missing something. He doesn’t feel the restlessness or awkwardness that Will seems to be feeling, whether due to his family or the silence between them. Maybe it’s because Tom’s okay with silence— contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t feel the need to fill every moment with a conversation. 

He can tell Will is far away in his head though, and that just won’t do, so Tom steps closer and elbows him in the arm. “Race ya?”

Will looks at Tom like he’s crazy, his eyebrows raised practically to his hairline. “There are people walking up here, Tom.”

“Then don’t run into them?” The smile that accompanies his statement is what wins Will over in the end, Tom thinks. Tom doesn’t give him time to think about it before he takes off in the direction of the bow.

A surprised: “Hey!” accompanies the sound of feet quickly closing in behind Tom. He should’ve known Will would catch up to him with his long legs. Losing doesn’t bother Tom though, because he feels utterly free in that moment with the cold ocean air blowing through his hair and grabbing at his fancy borrowed clothes.

The bow is within sight when Tom feels a pair of arms wrap around his waist from behind. The sudden backward pull nearly causes Tom to lose his balance and topple back into Will, who is now thankfully laughing in Tom’s ear. It’s a stark, yet nice change from the dining room and makes Tom feel warm inside that he was able to do that. He was able to pull that laughter from Will.

“You don’t get to win by cheating, Mr. Blake,” Will grunts, close to Tom’s ear.

Tom allows himself a moment to relish in the feel of Will’s arms around him before playing back into the banter. “Maybe you should just run faster next time.” And then he’s pulling out from around Will’s arms and grabbing his hand to pull Will the rest of the way down the length of the ship.

Soon enough, the bow of the ship looms in front of them. Its front mast is massive and remarkably still open to whoever wants to walk up and gaze over the side. Now, in the fading light, the sun looks otherworldly as it sets on the horizon. It’s golden light casts Will’s face in sharp relief, and it’s so beautiful that Tom itches for something greater than his sketching pencil back in his stateroom. He needs to capture the way Will looks, his eyes wide in awe, his mouth parted, speechless.

“Good, yeah?” Tom forces himself to say, to break himself out of his head. And then Will turns to look at Tom full-on, and Tom feels the floor drop out from under him.  _ Fuck _ .

Tom unintentionally lets his eyes fall to Will’s lips and linger on them for too long. Will must catch him at it because his face softens, a soft smile settling there. “This is quite the spot you’ve found. Quite secluded.” Tom’s face heats at the insinuation, but he motions behind Will to turn around.

“It is secluded, but before it gets dark, come up here with me.” Tom slides past Will, letting his hand trail across the small of Will’s back. He may or may not see a full-body shiver travel up Will’s spine at the contact.

“Step up on the railing, you have to get the full effect.” Will looks back at Tom, skeptical at the instructions. Tom realizes why after a beat. “Oh, we’re not going over, calm down. I’ll be right behind you.”

Reluctantly, Will steps up on one of the rungs at the bow, arms braced on the top of the railing. Tom takes a moment to just look before he picks his way over to stand behind Will. The other boy flinches at the feeling of someone behind him when Tom settles his hands on his waist. “You’re fine, I’ve got you. Put your arms out, it feels like you’re flying. Nothing else like it.”

Will doesn’t say anything— just brushes a hand against Tom’s before slowly raising both of his arms out to his sides. There’s silence before Tom thinks he can hear a quiet chuckle, somewhat lost in the wind, from Will.

“Is this what the birds feel like when they fly?” Will asks, turning his head so that Tom can hear him. It’s so gleeful and carefree that Tom can’t help laughing along with him.

“I’d like to think so. Cool, right?” Will doesn’t answer Tom, just stands for a minute in silence before Will lowers his hands, one settling atop Tom’s own while he braces himself to step down from the railing. And then Will is turning to face Tom and setting both of his hands on top of Tom’s own, his back to the railing and the setting sun.

Will’s eyes bore into Tom, the blue of them making the action feel almost mystical. Tom should pull his hands away, he should— he needs to, but it’s as if they’re glued to Will’s waist.

Perhaps it’s eons later or only a few seconds before Will’s withdrawing his hands. Rather than their moment be over though, he tentatively reaches out, one to Tom’s jacket lapel and the other up to his jaw, sliding against his skin slow enough that Tom could pull away at any moment.

Tom doesn’t want that, though— he’s barely breathing. And the dam breaks soon enough, Will’s about halfway leaned into Tom’s face when Tom leans forward the rest of the way and crashes their lips together. Will’s fingers on Tom’s face flex, nails biting into his skin just enough that he tightens his grasp at Will’s hips.

Will’s hand on his face slides around to cradle the back of Tom’s head, and he feels like he’s in heaven, eyes squeezed shut and flame burning bright in his chest. Tom wants to run his hands through Will’s hair, messing it further, but his hands feel paralyzed, his brain short-circuiting as Will bites down on his bottom lip. An embarrassing groan rips from his throat at the feeling, and Tom has to pull his face from Will or he  _ will  _ come in his borrowed trousers and be sent to jail when they dock in America for public indecency. 

They stay where they are, close enough to breathe each other’s air, simply looking. The sun winks out of existence, but its after-image remains present, dusk falling over them. Will’s hand remains in Tom’s hair, his fingers brushing through the overgrown strands.

Tom cants his head to the side, studying the way Will looks slightly down at him. He looks sad, suddenly, as if he’d made a terrible mistake. “What’s wrong?” he asks, quietly. Will must be stuck somewhere in his head because he blinks at the noise of Tom’s voice and seems to come back to himself.

“Nothing. I’m just thinking about my family. I’m sorry. You’re much more pleasing than them.”

If possible, Tom’s cheeks flush brighter— he fails to bite back a giddy smile, tries to duck his head close to his chest unsuccessfully in the attempt when Will lifts his chin to look at him.

“Do you wanna go to a real party?” Tom’s question seems to throw Will momentarily, which, okay, fair. “The Irish passengers in third-class can party until the sun comes up. There’s music, dancing, and beer. Wanna go?” Tom doesn’t try to hide the eager smile now that graces his face, watching as a tentative smile takes the place of a confused frown on Will’s face. Tom feels himself falling further and can already anticipate how much it’ll hurt when he hits bottom.

  
  
The nightly party in the third-class dance hall is already in full swing by the time Tom drags Will below deck. Raucous violin music and the shouts of laughter emanate down the corridor before they’re even at the doorway, and once they get inside, the din escalates tenfold. They ditch their dinner jackets at the door to better blend with the others, clad in neutral-colored trousers held up with suspenders and collarless shirts. Everywhere Tom looks, people are either dancing or dealing cards at one of the cocktail tables shoved to the outskirts of the room. Beer flows liberally down here— there is no snootiness over wine and champagne, just the easy camaraderie of alcohol and music.

Tom turns to Will and sees him gaping at the scene in front of them. He barely has time to react though, to ask what he thinks, before two girls run up to pull both boys to the dancefloor. He thinks he hears Will let out a surprised yelp, but when Tom looks to see him a few feet away, a gleeful smile resides on his features; he’s laughing merrily, head thrown back and eyes practically sparkling, as the girl he’s with leads him in a fast-paced jig that Tom’s actually surprised Will knows.

The dancing lasts for maybe five minutes before the musicians take a short break. Will finds Tom amidst the bodies, his face still beaming and hair finally free and falling into his eyes, and Will grasps at Tom’s elbows. 

“My mother would have a heart attack if she knew where I was.”

“I think she might have more of a problem with who you’re here with.” Will brushes off Tom’s statement though, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him to the bar.

The two of them each drink a beer, its coolness satisfying in the warm room despite its watered-down taste— it serves its purpose to contribute toward lower inhibitions. And then Tom’s pulling Will back to the dance floor. A group of people are dancing in a wide circle, linking hands to change direction every thirty seconds or so. A short man pulls them both in one after the other, yet somehow Will ends up across the circle from Tom. Tom is so mesmerized that he has to physically pull his eyes from Will for fear of tripping over his own feet or running into someone on either side of him.

After about a minute, a man and woman jump into the center of the circle, spinning around each other a few times. It’s graceful, simple yet intricate in the way they move opposite each other. Then they’re back, two women in drab skirts and blouses taking their place.

Their dance is intricate in a different sense-- it’s friendly, the girls are clearly very comfortable with each other. It seems that they have a deep-seated familiarity in the way they move. Tom half expects them to embrace and lock lips with each other by the end, but then they’re fading back into the circle and the next thing he knows, it’s himself that’s being pushed into the center, and he’s staring at Will, who is now also in the center.

Unlike the other partners before them, the two of them don’t immediately jump into a dance. Tom makes the first move though, a reassuring smile coaxing Will’s hand into his own before he’s spinning some imitation of a dance. Their dance quickly devolves to the two of them spinning in circles, hands both clasped to each other and pulled taught with tensile strength.

Will shouts with glee at the feeling, Tom joining in at some point. Cheers erupt around them, the violin egging them on for as long as they can. They can’t let go— letting go means more than falling on their asses. Letting go means slipping back into the shadows. Up here, they get to be close on the pretense of dancing.

Their spinning comes to an end sooner than Tom had hoped, but this time, rather than rejoin the circle of dancers, Tom and Will fall back into the surrounding environment.

They drift towards one of the exits, Will’s arm draped loosely around Tom’s waist. The flow of alcohol and adrenaline provides a cover for their intimate and overly friendly actions, but it’s certainly no excuse to forget their propriety entirely.

Tom gently steers them in the direction of his room, desperate to not only pick up his own coat but to grab his pencil and portfolio. If he’s got a limited amount of time to spend with this boy, Tom needs some way to immortalize him. Approaching his stateroom, Tom sees Cooke hanging out front with the door open, chatting up some girl who’s probably way too good for him.

Cooke eyes the two of them as they approach, his eyes going wide as he no doubt recognizes Will from Tom’s drawing. He thankfully doesn’t say or do anything but give Tom what he probably thinks is a covert wink. He also doesn’t move while Tom darts around him to grab his few things, Will staying in the doorway. Turning back to look at him, Tom sees that Will is trying and failing at keeping himself from glancing around at the space. The stateroom, cramped and crowded with four beds, is probably the smallest bedroom Will’s ever seen. The class difference suddenly seems like a chasm stretching between the two of them— virtually impassable.

Rejoining Will at the door, they’re about to continue on down the corridor when the girl talking to Cooke shifts her eyes to Tom. It’s startling, her eyes piercing into what feels like his soul. “You boys have a tail.” Her accent is thick and northern.

Will shifts his attention to the girl, eyebrows drawn and thrown off by the seemingly random statement. “What?”

“‘Said you’ve got a tail. Someone’s following you. Looks like a big ol’ bloke with a black coat. He’s down at the end of the hallway chatting up some woman; probably waiting for you to start walking again. Thought you should know.” And then she’s turning back to Cooke, an amused smile pulling the corner of her mouth up as he drops some line to her— only Tom’s not listening to him. He’s still frozen a few feet into the room, eyes wide.

Will chances a glance down the hallway and looks back to Tom, eyes wide. “It’s one of Edward’s men. I think his name is Lovejoy.”

A variety of scenarios flicker through Tom’s head. It’s very possible that he knows the ship, especially down here, better than some first-class bodyguard. They’ve got to take their chances or risk whatever the punishment is if cornered. Tom makes his choice.

Squeezing out of the room between Will and Cooke, Tom nods subtly in the direction of the way they’d been originally heading. They walk, making sure to still play into the act of lowered inhibitions. This time, Tom’s the one who takes it upon himself to drape his arm around Will’s waist as they pretend to stumble down the straight corridor. Will lets him, surely caught in the middle of trying to keep up appearances and giving in to his desires.

Up ahead the corridor turns, following the shape of the ship and eventually leading to a staircase that has a service door with no lock on it. They’ll be able to lose him there, around the corner and down the stairs. With any luck, the deck beneath them will hold something valuable to hide in or around.

Tom turns to Will—Will’s laid back smile from earlier is gone. He’d do anything to bring it back. “There’s a turn up here and a stairwell just beyond it. We can lose him there and escape into the cargo hold for a bit.”

“You think that’ll work?” Will mumbles back. Tom can only imagine what’s going through his mind right now. His family is quite literally following him, closed off to the idea of letting him be happy or free for a night. His mother’s only son.

“Worth a shot. When I say three, start running for the stairs, okay?” Will nods, and then they bide their time. Tom wants to ask why he’s being followed, what his family has against their own blood, but now isn’t the time. The corner is fast approaching and they don’t need to be distracted when seconds matter.

Will’s gone quiet, though, like he’s trying to concentrate on the task at hand which, fair. Will likely doesn’t have as much experience running from constables and angry shop owners as Tom does from his youth.

As soon as they’re safely around the corner, Tom mutters a, “three,” and they’re off while being as quiet as they can. It’s likely that Lovejoy will likely catch on to their plan sooner rather than later, but for now, they run and slide through the unlocked service door to try their luck down the stairs.

They’ve got a good thirty seconds on the bodyguard as they come out of the stairwell into what looks to be the cargo hold. Tom exhales in relief that he made the correct choice to take them down rather than up. It’s a maze down here with cars and crates of luggage and supplies— perfect for losing that prick.

But it’s Will who pulls him toward a larger, four-door car that looks like it cost more money than Tom would make in two years. He can’t help but gape for a second before Will’s yanking on his hand again.

“Tom!” he hisses, trying to be urgent yet quiet. “Get over here!”

The sound of the service stairwell door slams against the metal of the wall, echoes in the quiet, and spurs Tom into action. Both boys clamber into the back and shut the door as quietly as they can, they huddle flat beneath the window line on the floor— practically on top of each other. Tom throws his oversized dark coat over the both of them to cover as much of their lighter clothing as possible. 

They barely dare to breathe, afraid they’ll give themselves away in an attempt to catch their breaths. Expensive-sounding shoes click by on the floor outside the car. Tom desperately doesn’t want to find out what could happen if they’re discovered. The footsteps fade slowly and, after what feels like ten years, the service door to the stairwell opens on the other end of the hold and slams in what is probably frustration. Almost as if the stairwell door were tied to their ability to breathe, both Tom and Will audibly exhale when the door slams. 

On the pretense that Lovejoy could still come back, they remain where they’re huddled until five minutes pass, and Tom remembers that he is  _ very _ close to Will, practically laying on top of him on the floor. Tom pushes himself up and pulls his jacket off the two of them, resting on his elbows still half on top of Will.

Will’s face is flushed, his eyes bright even in the darkness. Neither of them says anything, speechless for a moment as they just stare.

Tom raises the arm that isn’t holding himself up and reaches to brush some of Will’s hair out of his face. Will’s eyes follow his movements, barely breathing. They’re falling into this pattern where they teeter on the edge of something before one or both of them finally moves in a rush of feeling, and this time is no different. 

This time, it’s Tom who lowers himself to Will, lips catching at his upper lip in his haste to get closer. Will’s hands fly to Tom’s waist, one sliding up his lower back, pulling his dress shirt out of his trousers from between his suspenders. Tom’s lips find Will’s fully, a moan falling from his lips when Will’s nails scratch at his back. The feeling of Will’s tongue on his lips, the overwhelming feel of this boy under him, touching him so intimately, makes Tom want to vibrate out of his bones.

Before they move too much farther, though, Tom places a hand on Will’s chest, pushing up just enough to create a few inches of distance. The separation physically pains him, but he needs answers before they continue. The two of them are also on the floor of a very large car, one with ample back seat space. If they’re going to do  _ anything,  _ Tom doesn’t want it to be on the floor. He does have  _ some _ standards.

Will withdraws his lips— but he makes no attempt to move his hands. Tom can work with that. “What are we doing? Are we…” Tom trails off, only slightly self-conscious about how breathy he sounds; he can even feel Will’s fingers flexing on him at the sound of his voice.

“I want whatever you’ll give me, Tom. I just want you.” Tom can’t argue with that. He’s half tempted to just lean back in and pick up where they left off, but he curbs the desire until they can move to the backseat bench. 

Before he leans away to climb onto said bench, he leans down so his mouth is close to the shell of Will’s ear. “I want you to fuck me in this  _ ridiculous  _ car. Right now.” He can see the shiver that travels through Will’s entire being, can see the way his eyelids flutter shut.

“I can… I can do that, yeah.” And then Tom is pulling his body away to resituate himself on the bench, about a foot and a half higher than where they’re currently bunched. He braces himself on his elbows, unhooking his suspenders now rather than fumbling later. When he’s finished, Will is still on the floor, though he’s propped up on his own elbows now. Tom needs him here, on him, driving him out of his mind with pleasure. Will just looks for a moment, breathing hard.

Like this— hair rumpled, lips kiss red, and shirt half untucked and thoroughly wrinkled— Will looks positively sinful. “What?” Tom asks, faltering in his movements as the sheer power and presence of Will threatens to overtake him.

“You’re just so beautiful.”

“Yeah?” Tom challengers. “Why don’t you come and appreciate my beauty up close?”

That stirs Will into moving. The compartment is admittedly a bit tight with two full groan bodies, but Will fits into the curves of Tom’s body like he was made to be there. It’s a warm and comfortable weight where Will presses into Tom— his fingers under his shirt, leg pressed between Tom’s own.

He lets himself go pliant, lets Will claim his mouth, claim his body with his hands.  _ God  _ his hands are big. Tom kisses back, threads a hand through Will’s hair, his other wrapped around his shoulders.

All they’re doing is kissing, the leg Will has pressed in between Tom’s own remaining frustratingly stationary. All they’re doing is kissing and Tom thinks that he hasn’t been with someone that’s made him feel like this in a long time. The thought is compounded when Will moves his lips from Tom’s, letting them travel up the length of his jaw and down to his neck. A quiet and breathy noise is pulled from his throat— he tilts his head back against the seat.

“Yeah?” Will asks, taunting.

Tom arches on the bench, trying to find some kind of friction against Will’s leg. Between the closeness, the heat emanating from their bodies, and the endorphins thrumming through Tom already, he can feel himself growing hard. He feels like a blushing virgin.

“Fuck, I need your hands on me. I need my hands on  _ you _ . Take your shirt off.” Tom nearly regrets making the demand because Will moves his mouth back to Tom’s own only for a moment before pulling away to undo his own suspenders and discard both his dress shirt and undershirt.

Tom feels the absence of Will and the firmness of his torso so acutely that Tom forgets his own shirts are still on. He’s so fixated on the reveal of Will’s chest, that Will has to start undoing Tom’s buttons for him. “Am I going to have to do everything for you?”

Tom gulps, but manages to shake his head and utter a petulant: “No, I can take my trousers off myself.”

Will’s answering chuckle is somewhere between exasperated and way too turned on. “Why don’t you show me then?”

_ Oh. _ So Tom fumbles with the buttons on these fancy trousers that aren’t his, gasping when the colder air hits his bare thighs. Through his undergarments, Tom’s growing erection is more visible, and he sees Will glance down before he decides to continue with his efforts of mauling Tom’s neck. If Will’s family disliked him before, they’d really hate him after he destroyed Will’s blemish-free skin.

Hands explore bodies as the minutes extend onward. Tom’s hands skim down Will’s back coming to rest on his ass, Will’s own skim down Tom’s side, thumb briefly sweeping over one of Tom’s sensitive nipples, earning a groan from Tom in response.

Will’s going slow, slower than Tom would like in all honesty. He keeps skimming his fingers to the edge of his hip bone and then raking them back up, Tom whining every time. In the hopes of egging him on, Tom slips his own fingers past the waistband of Will’s trousers, which are still on for some reason. Rude. 

“Fuck, Will,” Tom breathes. “I need you to touch me, please.”

Tom watches as Will reacts to his words, and  _ oh _ , that elicits a reaction from him that Tom can have fun with. Luckily, or unluckily, depending on this new information, Will doesn’t wait any longer, nor does he give any warning that he’s about to drive Tom insane other than licking a stripe up his hand before reaching into Tom’s undergarments and wrapping it around his dick.

A full-body shiver travels up Tom’s spine, his eyes closing, mouth opening in silent awe. Realistically, Tom understands that Will is bigger than him, but Will’s hands feel fucking huge on him right now. Tom bites back a higher pitched moan while Will twists his wrist.

Warm lips along the shell of his ear— the tables turned. “If this is the only time we get to do this, I wanna hear you, Tom.”

_ "Fuck,” _ Tom exhales, raking his nails up Will’s back before letting one of hands bury back into his hair. Using his new leverage, Tom pulls Will’s lips back down to his own, drinking in the multiple points of contact between their bodies. It’s nearly overwhelming, and as Will speeds up his hand, Tom relents to hold on, panting into Will’s mouth as his stomach tightens. “Will I’m close…  _ Will.” _

Tom does not want solely a hot and heavy handjob in the back of some car, fumbling like a pair of teenagers. No, Tom wants all of Will. Tom wants to be pinned down as Will drives into him, hard enough that he’ll feel it for days and weeks. This boy has already left a mark on his soul, Tom wants him to leave marks on his body as well.

Will doesn’t slow down though, if anything, he speeds up.  _ “Will.” _

“You can go ahead and come, Tom. I want you to last for what I’m going to do with you after this.” Despite what Will had told Tom about being loud, he remains hushed, low and breathy close to Tom’s face.

The tone of the statement, the knowledge of what it entails, and just the feeling alone threatens to overwhelm Tom and push him over the edge. He’s close, his climax is practically upon him now, eyes screwed shut and breaths coming unevenly. And then, through it all, Will tells Tom to open his eyes, to look at him, and he’s fucking gone. Will’s eyes are piercing like this, half-lidded and sparkling with lust.

Tom arches up into it, hips thrusting in time as Will helps him through his orgasm, spilling between the two of them. His hold on Will’s hair is tight, his nails are biting into Will’s back, yet Will doesn’t complain. No— he kisses Tom tenderly and slow, hand slowing and then leaving Tom altogether to first wipe absently at his own pants, and then up to cradle Tom’s face.

He feels almost strung out, but not yet totally sated. For a moment they lie in silence, content to kiss each other into oblivion. As Tom’s breathing begins to return to normal, though, Will moves away from his mouth, his thumb coming to run across Tom’s swollen bottom lip. It slips into his mouth, Tom unable to stop himself from automatically sucking at it. Will’s eyes darken in the already dim light.

For now, they find pleasure in roaming hands and mouths, gradually working Tom back up to a point where he’s practically writhing on the fabric of the seat.

In the rush to grab his portfolio, Tom had slipped his small tin of Vaseline into his coat pocket, and now as Will gradually works him open with it, he thanks his past self. Will works thoroughly, alternating between biting at his shoulder and practically panting into each other’s mouths. 

Eventually, he manages to get Will to stop teasing him, to finally fuck him like he so desperately  _ needs _ — like he won’t break.

It’s awkward in the backseat, cramped, the backseat not quite long enough, but soon enough Will is fully inside Tom, the latter hardly daring to breathe.

Like with his teasing earlier, Will doesn’t rush them, taking his time despite Tom’s protestations and breathy pleads to go faster. They’re too close together, the splay of their limbs too contorted for Tom to even consider touching himself.

Through the pleading and the whining, Will eventually relents and speeds up his thrusts, leaning forward to capture Tom’s curses with his own mouth and to nibble at his jaw and the area under his ear. Tom’s nails dig into Will’s shoulder blades, stuttered breaths breaking into moans halfway through each exhale.

The slide of their skin in the cabin, the air hanging heavy around them and fogging the windows, only adds to the headiness of it all. A particularly deep thrust has Tom keening.

“Fuck,  _ fuck _ , I don’t think I’m going to last much longer, Will.”

Will braces a hand to the glass above Tom, the slight change in angle adding to the dizzying feeling. “Let go, Tom. Let me see you let go,” Will pants.

From there, it doesn’t take too long for Tom to fall over the edge again, harder this time than the last, a long groan on his lips. Will follows closely—Tom tightens around him, and that’s not doing his resolve any favors. If the feeling of Will inside him already felt amazing, the feeling of Will losing control inside him is completely different.

It’s not a new feeling to Tom, but somehow it feels different with Will, more meaningful regardless of the fleeting nature of their relationship.

Will lets his head rest against Tom’s temple, the latter taking advantage of the angle to bite lazily at Will’s jaw, repaying him for some of the bruises now littering his own skin. Will can only reply with a quiet moan, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re gonna kill me, Tom.”

The involuntary giggle that bubbles out of Tom’s throat brings a full smile to Will’s face, the easiness of it all still somewhat baffling.

“Would you sit up a bit to lean against the side, I just—” Will doesn’t have to finish his statement for Tom to understand. Still, the loss of Will as he pulls out is mournful, Tom misses him even though he’s still there.

They eventually maneuver themselves so that Tom is leaned up against the window of the car, Will all but collapsing against Tom’s chest. They blindly grab one of their undershirts off the floor to haphazardly wipe off the space between them. Once settled, Will’s weight is comforting, the feel of Will’s hair between Tom’s fingers as he combs them through the mess. Grounding.

Curiosity begins to gnaw at the inside of Tom’s mind, then. “Have you ever done this with another guy?”

For a moment, Will’s silent. Then, “Yeah, a few times with various people.” He doesn’t offer any other details, and Tom doesn’t ask. It’s stupid to feel jealous of past partners, Tom knows he’s also had his fair share— hell, one of them is literally upstairs with some girl he’d met at a party. He has no right to feel jealous… and yet.

If they could, Tom would choose to stay in the back of the car forever, content to feel the weight of Will on top of him and nothing else. The soft rise and fall of Will’s breath on his neck, the feel of his hair between Tom’s fingers— it reminds him of the fact that they’re both alive and human. Fuck society, fuck the class wars and barriers, Tom has never met someone who just seems to wholly understand Tom like Will does.

Tom scratches idly up Will’s back, relishing in the contented hum that the latter produces. They aren’t in any rush to get dressed and presentable just yet, though Tom doubts that they could really make Will look presentable again. Will’s hair is truly a lost cause: his mouth looks like he just lost a boxing match, he has dark red spots quickly coloring to bruises along his collarbone, and his shirt is wrinkled up on the floor. As a third-class passenger, Tom thinks he could probably get away with his rumpled appearance with a little bit more leeway than Will.

“Is it silly to say I’m jealous of those other boys?” Tom mumbles, feeling silly for voicing a thought that really shouldn’t matter. Even though Tom doesn’t know how many other men or boys Will has been with— nor does he have any right to care— the idea that others got to see Will like this, sated, full of lust, and controlling, nearly makes Tom want to go again, as if  _ that  _ would leave his mark.

Will doesn’t look up at him from where his head is still resting, half on his shoulder, half on his chest. “No, but I never felt for any of them nearly as strongly as I feel for you. You help drive home the idea that I can’t marry Grace.”

Grace. Will’s fiancée who is definitely still in the picture. It reminds Tom of a question he’d had earlier, what feels like hours ago. “Why was Edward’s bodyguard following us?”

If Will thinks the subject change is odd, he doesn’t voice it. “The match was my mother’s idea because upper society was beginning to whisper about me,” he says, absentmindedly drawing patterns on Tom’s torso as he recounts the wretchedness of his mother. “Grace seemed to take to me easy enough, which is fine, she’s nice and sweet. I think that’s why I’m so loath to marry her. She doesn’t deserve to be married to someone who doesn’t love her like that.” Will trails off for a moment, but Tom remains silent, not wanting to scare Will from the conversation.

“Anyway,” he begins again, “Edward’s always been skeptical of me, distrustful. I think he’s heard the rumors and knows they’re more than just talk. I have no doubt he sees the way I look at you.” Will raises his head then to look up at Tom, their eyes meeting. Will’s right— it’s no wonder they’re being followed, because if Will looks at him like Tom’s his entire world after only knowing him for two and a half days, then Tom knows he must look like a lovesick fool. Will’s stare is intense and all-consuming— Tom doesn’t know how he’ll leave him when they get to New York.

Tom tugs at Will’s back, urging him up so that their heads are at the same level. The kiss this time is slow, a reverent slide of lips with Will’s hand that had been stroking at his side now gently cradling Tom’s face.

"I wish things were different," Will whispers in the millimeters between their open mouths.

Tom reluctantly opens his eyes just enough to look at Will. The other boy is fuzzy this close, but it's enough. "Who says they can't be?"

A humorless laugh spills from Will's lips. "You've met my mother. You know she would never let me. I'll be surprised if she lets me near you again after tonight. Edward's bodyguard will tell them everything, and she also has eyes." He takes a moment to brush a loose curl out of Tom's eyes. His voice is soft, but it's heavy and painful all the same. Tom feels like he's being slowly smothered with the finality of those words. He doesn't want to think about it now. 

All this time he's spent with boys who were just good enough to pass the time, and now he has to give up the one who causes him to see stars every time he simply touches him, intimate or not? No, there  _ has  _ to be a way.

"What about those arrangements that I told you about the night we met?" _The night you decided you couldn't marry this girl? Now you're just gonna give in?_ Tom brushes a thumb across one of Will’s cheekbones, his heart practically breaking as he watches Will’s eyes momentarily fall shut in yearning. Tom continues stroking his hand into Will’s hair and lets his hand come to rest at the nape of the other boy’s neck. "It wouldn't be ideal, but any time I could spend with you would be enough, Will."

Will's eyes look heartbroken as Tom rambles on, as though just the thought makes him sad. "Tom, I couldn't ask that of you. You don't deserve—"

"To hell with what I deserve. It's about what I want, and I want you however you'll have me. We don't have to decide this now, obviously, but I need you to know that, okay?"

Reluctantly, Will nods, bending his head forward once more to silence Tom's mind.

  
  


Eventually, Tom and Will drag themselves out of the car and try to make themselves look presentable again. It's a pointless task; out in the marginally better-lit room, Tom can see the number he did on Will. There is no one who would look at him and think he didn't just have long and intense sex.

Trying to do more than comb through their hair with their fingers and brush out their shirts and trousers for as many wrinkles as they can is pretty much in vain. Looking at his reflection in the side mirror, it is  _ very  _ clear that Tom had also just been fucked within an inch of his life.

Unlike where he'd tried to be cognizant of where he left bite marks and hickies on Will, Will had had no such qualms. There's one right below his left ear and another a few inches lower. A row of three along his collarbone, that can thankfully be hidden by his shirt, look as if they were three poorly rendered tattoos, put on his skin to signify something more meaningful.

As he's inspecting his outfit in the rear passenger window, Will comes up behind him, sliding his hands around his waist and placing a soft kiss almost directly on top of the bruise under his ear. Tom can't help the breath he draws in at the feeling, the way he leans into Will's broad chest. While Tom's leaning there, Will takes it upon himself to finish buttoning up his shirt for him, lips continuing their journey along his jaw. If Will's not careful, Tom will get right back undressed again and go for round three. But Will relents, and Tom walks them out of the other end of the hold and up the stairs until they're out and under the stars again. 

Tom has no idea what time it is— they've been inside and away from clocks for what feels like hours. Distantly he kicks himself for not grabbing his watch from his room when they were down there.

The deck has a few people out, not nearly as many as there had been when the two of them were heading below earlier. It must be later. Sure enough, when they come across a ship clock, the time reads around 11:20 pm. It's likely all those stuffy first-class people will be retiring to bed soon, Tom thinks.

They walk a lap of C deck talking about Tom’s time in art school. Tom wants to make enough to take classes in New York, too. Will looks at him the entire time like he’s hung the moon. When they lap back around to a space of the deck that has a secluded area hidden behind a wall, Tom yanks Will into the corner, pressing him against the wall this time.

They’re close— if anyone were to come upon them, lips locked and pressed into each other in the cold air, there would be no explaining it away. For a second, Will begins to protest with this very point, but when Tom tugs at the back of his head, Will squeezes his eyes shut, biting back a moan.

Unlike back in the cargo hold, though, they aren’t racing towards any kind of release. The kiss is slow, languid like it had been outside of the car. This kind of kiss is an experienced one, one where the parties involved know each other intimately and have for a long time.

This dance feels as natural as breathing. The feel of Will’s hands on Tom, everywhere they can reach, is borderline euphoric. Should they be caught, Tom doesn’t know if he’d be able to pull himself away.

Their kissing this time manages to stay largely sequestered to lips and a little along the jaw. Their clothes are on and need to stay on for a number of reasons, so there aren’t nearly enough places available to express these intense feelings.

Tom nips at Will’s jaw, the point of one of his canines pressing hard enough to cause Will’s head to thump against the iron wall. He’s about to choke out some smart quip about the tables being turned when a loud and ear-splitting grinding from the side of the ship catches both their attention.

The noise continues for long enough that the boys are able to walk the few feet out from around the wall to see a huge and looming wall of ice at the starboard side of the ship. This wall of ice, this _ iceberg _ , is clearly rubbing along the side of the ship so closely that a few chunks of ice snap off and fall to the deck practically at the boys’ feet.

It’s such a startling sight that Tom wonders if he’s seeing this right or if he’s hallucinating. But Will is staring just as fixed as he is as the sheet of ice slides past them.

A few others from around the deck are also out and staring at the ice, at the chunks now sitting on the wooden planks of C deck. Unable to resist the temptation, Tom walks forward to kick at one of the chunks as if it were a stone in his way on his walk home. He looks back at Will, smiles and says, “Wanna play a match? Bet I could beat ‘ya.” The ice slides back and forth between his feet easily, but Will just levels him with a look that says  _ ‘really?’ _

Instead, Will walks to the side of the railing, bypassing Tom and peering over to look at the retreating iceberg. Tom joins him, and notices with a bit of relief that the ship seems to have turned away from the hunk of ice to prevent the whole length of the ship from being scraped past.

“Who’s down there steering this thing, anyway?” Tom mumbles more to himself than anything.

When the Titanic was being built, Tom remembers reading about how it was unsinkable, about how there were these watertight compartments that would close to prevent water from filling up the hull. He wonders if those will need to be used now. He hopes not.

Will still looks concerned though, staring at the retreating berg growing smaller as the minutes pass. 

“Will? What’s wrong?” Tom lays a hand on his shoulder, trying to get his attention, but it only half works.

Rather than answer, Will shakes his head— though whether it’s to brush off Tom or to banish one of his own thoughts, Tom’s not sure.

“I need to find Grace and my mother, see if they heard this. I have a bad feeling.”

He doesn’t wait for Tom to follow, but Tom follows anyway, catching up in a few paces. “If the ship goes down, and I mean  _ if _ , there’re lifeboats for everyone, we’ll be fine.” Will doesn’t say anything to Tom for a moment, but a moment is all it takes to sink Tom’s stomach. “ _ Right,  _ Will? Or do you know something I don’t?”

The reply is so quiet that Tom swears he doesn’t hear Will correctly at first. “There aren’t enough lifeboats.”

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

Will stops walking abruptly, causing Tom to nearly ram into him when the former turns to face him. “I said there aren’t enough lifeboats. We had a tour from the captain yesterday, and he told us as such. If the ship is going down, my family needs to be on one of those boats, regardless of my feelings toward them.”

“Wait— wait.” Will’s saying a lot, more than Tom’s prepared to take in at the moment. He places his hands on Will’s chest in an attempt to slow him down so he can have even a few seconds to digest the information. “We don’t know if that iceberg did any damage. Surely we should wait until the captain tells us something, right? Wouldn’t that be better than getting your family all worked up?” The longer it takes for Will to come up with an answer, the faster Tom’s heart begins to race. Adrenaline begins to kick in— Tom’s hands start to shake.

Will just looks at Tom, with what almost looks like pity. “Did you know there weren’t enough lifeboats? Does Cooke?”

Terror floods through Tom then. Will’s right, after all. What’s to stop the people up top from saving the high society people before the third-class passengers? Women and children be damned.

Tom’s face must show his feelings freely because Will looks around briefly before walking forward a few feet and taking Tom’s face in his hands. He is instantly at ease.

“I won’t let anything happen to you if I can help it, okay? You stick with me. With any luck, I'm wrong and it’ll be okay. This _ is _ an unsinkable ship, after all.” Will sweeps his thumbs across Tom’s cheekbones before nodding.

Tom nods in turn and tries to calm his breathing before they begin their trek into the ship.

The one good thing about Will being first-class is, they don’t have to travel far into the ship to reach his cabin. They should only be so lucky to get to the cabin, though, because as soon as they turn down the proper corridor, passing a few people along the way, they spot practically the entirety of Will’s family, along with Edward’s bodyguard and a ship’s officer, standing out in the hallway. It’s as if the party had been waiting for them.

Edward and company look up at the sound of Will telling a passenger about the possible need for life vests. The sight of the bodyguard,  _ Lovejoy _ , and an officer staying where they are is enough to stop Tom in his tracks, falling behind Will a few steps before the latter also stops walking. But the men of the party don’t need to wait for the boys to reach them, still a few doors away, because Edward begins stalking toward the two of them, other men in tow.

For a moment, Tom thinks they’re going for Will, but then the officer sidesteps him and yanks Tom’s arms behind his back before slapping handcuffs around his wrists. Tom’s at such a loss that he can’t get out much more than a stuttered, “Wait, what?”

Will, bless him, is much quicker on his feet. He watches as Will pulls at Lovejoy's shoulder, trying to get past him and to the officer. “What are you doing? Let him go, he’s not done anything!”

The words sound painfully reminiscent to the last time they were in this situation. 

“Thomas Blake is being arrested for public indecency and sodomy.” Edward supplies, haughty and smug.  _ Oh. _

Tom’s eyes find Will’s, wide and panicked. Like last time, Tom instantly knows that he’ll agree with anything Will says if it means safety. “What? Where the hell did you get that information from? We were just on the deck watching the ship we’re on hit a massive iceberg.”

“Don’t try to make this any better, Will. Lovejoy followed the two of you, and he reported what he found back to me. I haven’t told Grace yet, don’t worry.”

Even if Tom wasn’t handcuffed, he certainly wouldn’t stop Will in that moment from lunging forward and punching Edward in the jaw. The hit doesn’t lay him out by any means, but it does cause him to stumble back a few steps.

Tom knows he’s about to be pulled away at any moment, no doubt into the bowels of the ship where he’ll be plenty far from Will’s grasp. Before Edward waves his hand though to give them the order, Will snaps, just loud enough for the small group gathered in the cabin doorway to hear. “Next time you send Lovejoy to tail someone, maybe you should get his eyes checked so he can give you an accurate report as to who's the guilty party.”

Through the fear and panic that he’s feeling, Tom still can’t help but let out a choked laugh at Will’s statement—but that seems to remind Edward that he’s still there. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t get the punch he knows that Edward's dying to give Will in return.

“Yes, and then maybe next time you’ll be more mindful of your appearance after the fact. You can take him away now, officer.”

Of course, the officer pulls Tom down the rest of the corridor and past where Grace and Will’s mother are gathered in the doorway. He purposely glares at Will’s mother as he passes, wanting her to know the amount of loathing he feels for her. Her eyes meet his own, defiant and disgusted.  _ God, _ if they only knew the truth. Perhaps they do. Perhaps they’ve just picked Tom to frame because it’s easiest. The only person who knows him is Cooke, and God only knows the type of defense he’d be able to make.

Tom glances back as he’s pushed none too gently forward and sees Will being held back by Edward and Lovejoy, a look of anguish and panic unmasked for all to see.

If the ship really is sinking, Tom hopes that Will’s family is able to make it off—Will included. If he can’t have Will, he hopes at least Will gets to be happy with someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I've stated in like three other places, I want you all to know that there still will be no major character death. I thought I should remind you all as we get into the angst next chapter.
> 
> Like always though, thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this bit!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo folks, here we go.   
> This was a lot to write because of my inability to write angst, but it's finished and I'm happy with it anyway.  
> I just want everyone to know who has left me comments on this fic, that I am so incredibly grateful, and you all make me so happy and soft.
> 
> While this is technically the end of the Titanic portion of the story, we've got an epilogue that will likely go up this coming Sunday or Monday.   
> Enjoy the ship sinking where I continue to commit to my 'no major character death' tag.
> 
> As usual, I have so much love for the 2nd Devons discord for encouraging me and letting me scream at them about this endlessly.

_ "And I wanna do somethin' for you / But I can see it now / You'd smile and tell me not to / I know I wanna be her run-to / Will there be demons when we come through?" _

-"Without Fear", Dermot Kennedy

The elevator that the officer shoves Tom into already has two other passengers, but both parties pretend the other doesn’t exist, each pointedly averting their eyes, as Tom is taken down to E deck.

The master-at-arms, Tom comes to learn, is the man who’s escorting him down to what is essentially the brig— except it’s a downright laughable imitation of one where, instead of being thrown into a cell, he’s instead re-handcuffed to one of the pipes running along the side of the wall. It helps shed light on how insidious his arrest is.

On their way to the sad imitation of the brig, the boat had subtly begun to lean to one side, instilling a fear in Tom he had hoped to be proven wrong about. At this point, Tom can no longer tell if his increased heart rate is because of the ship sinking or because of his impending doom at the hands of this officer. The master-at-arms either doesn’t notice the change or elects to ignore it— all too content to drag Tom’s ass to where he’s decided he belongs.

The master-at-arms gets Tom all the way down to E deck, cuffs him to the pipe,  _ and _ lights a cigarette while reclining in his chair before he finally speaks up. “After we get to New York, you’ll be carted off to one of their jails. Let them deal with a trial and such.”

This whole situation is still so downright ridiculous that Tom can’t help but scoff in disbelief. He should really keep all outward displays of emotion to himself right now to ward off any further unwanted attacks, but he just can’t keep it contained anymore.

“If we even make it that far. Did you notice the boat’s sinking, mate? Water’s getting awfully close to the window out there.” He makes a show of looking out of the small porthole and sees with worrying confirmation that the water does look closer than it had from his own stateroom porthole the last time he’d checked.

The master-at-arms though just levels Tom with a flat look, unamused as he drags on his cigarette. It’s clear that he doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary yet then. Even when he does begin to feel something though, Tom wonders if he’ll be left down here while the officer runs to the top of the ship to save himself. The man’s treating Tom like he’s a criminal anyway, why would he save him?

“You people are always trying to conflate things worse than they actually are. Best get comfortable, you won’t be moving for a while.” It occurs then to Tom that this officer could likely be from no higher a social station than Tom himself, but the power the officer has been given encourages him to flaunt it over those he perceives as lower than him. It’s a sad fact that Tom justifies the reason for his next actions.

Tom’s self-preservation skills have been known to be lacking even in the best circumstances, and he’s just so  _ tired _ at this point that he doesn’t care. The ship is sinking, he’s handcuffed to a pipe, and he’s being charged for a crime because some wealthy people are out to get him— might as well go out fists flying. “Excuse me? ‘You people’? What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? Because last time I checked, it took two people to engage in an illegal act as stupid as the one I’m being charged with, yet I’m the only one down here!” Tom hadn’t necessarily realized he was raising his voice, too preoccupied with the blood rushing in his ears, until the master-at-arms abruptly stands and pulls his hand back, slapping Tom solidly across the face.

The silence that follows is deafening, the sting that spreads across his cheek just as great. “And yet only one of you is a first-class citizen with deep pockets. Now shut your mouth and just stand there.”

And that’s the reality, isn’t it? Tom will always get the short end of the stick while he wants for money and resources. He’s at the mercy of the law while people like Will just aren’t, regardless of how much they don’t mean to take advantage of it. Emigrating to America likely won’t change that fact. Yet, Tom still can’t blame Will for it— the idea doesn’t make Tom want to be with him any less.

So Tom leans against the pipe and watches out the porthole as the ship starts to create an incline from one end of the room to the other. He tries to ignore how his hands grow clammier and how his heart begins to feel like it’s set to burst from his chest.  _ There’s still time _ , Tom tells himself.

When the incline gets just noticeable for the pen on the master-at-arms’ desk to begin rolling away, footsteps can be heard running up the hallway and past the door, voices loud enough and in large enough quantity that the officer gets up to see what all the noise is about.

Only, when he wrenches the door open, Tom sees a near-continuous stream of people hurrying down the hallway. Tom sees what he swears are minuscule ripples in what looks to be a few inches of water collecting now traveling into their own room.

The master-at-arms mutters something unintelligible to Tom before he walks out into the hallway, closing the door firmly behind him. At least he doesn’t hear the click of a lock.

More water starts to force its way under the door right around the time Tom begins to be sure he’s been abandoned. If he thought he was beginning to panic earlier, the flood of adrenaline throughout his body makes Tom think he might be having a heart attack. Rattling the cuffs against the pipe, he tries to judge their strength and the likelihood of escape under his own power. When he’s sure that won’t work, Tom looks around the room for any sign of something to help, but all he immediately sees is a fire ax far outside of his reach. 

Against his better judgment, Tom glances out the porthole to see the water lapping at the bottom of the glass whenever a wave pushes it in his direction. He’s going to die down here alone in the cold water, handcuffed to a metal pipe acting as a scapegoat for a family who don’t want their son to be happy.

Resigned to his fate, Tom has resorted to looking out the porthole at the rising water as the ship sinks into the ocean— and then he hears shouts that sound like his name being yelled down the hallway. He listens for a moment, heart racing differently than before and trying not to get his hopes up. An echo that sounds suspiciously like, “Tom!” comes again from a voice that is distinctly male.

“Tom! Are you down here?” Against all odds, the voice sounds like Will’s, and Tom feels his hopes swell.

“Will?” Tom calls back, as loud as he can. “Will! I’m in here!”

The response he gets sounds more upbeat and excited, and it takes a few more shouted exchanges before Will shoves the door open to the master-at-arms’ office. A rush of water follows him, adding to the ankle-deep amount already in there, but that’s not what Tom pays attention to at that moment.

The sight of Will standing in the doorway with a proper outer coat on and cheeks red from both the cold and exertion of running around the ship is downright euphoric. It’s like Tom’s been barely treading water and now he’s finally been thrown a life preserver. Whatever happens now, at least Will’s found him. For a moment, they’re unable to do much more than stand there and stare at each other.

“Will?” Tom finally breathes, quiet enough that Will can probably barely hear it. 

A relieved smile breaks out onto Will’s face, and then he’s wading across the room and grabbing at Tom’s face with both of his hands. The kiss that Will pulls him into feels like Will’s pouring his entire soul into Tom. It’s a kiss of passion and coming back together— of ‘thank God I’ve found you’ and ‘I’ll never leave you again’.

Pulling away from each other, Tom looks up at Will in awe. He lets his eyes travel up Will’s figure quickly and notices that he looks more like a third-class passenger than Tom’s seen yet with his jacket thrown over a collarless shirt and suspenders out on display and not hidden behind a waistcoat. “What are you doing here?”

Will scoffs as if Tom’s question were stupid and unthinkable. “I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you if I could help it, so here I am, keeping that promise. I am not going down with this ship without you, Thomas Blake.”

Tom tries to open his mouth and respond, but no words he can think of are comparable to all of  _ that _ . He has no words because no one has ever told him something so meaningful. So, to make up for the lack of words, Tom leans forward to try and coax Will into another kiss. Will relents and strokes at Tom’s cheekbones with his thumbs for a few moments before a particularly cold wave of water licks at his shins.

“ _ Fuck _ , you gotta get me out of here, Will. There might be keys in the drawer. If not, you’ll have to use that fire ax on the wall over there.” Tom doesn’t want to think about Will trying to use an ax to get him out of the handcuffs, and apparently Will doesn’t either, judging by his widened eyes and raised eyebrows. God, please let the keys be in one of the desk drawers.

Of course, the keys aren’t though, So Will wrenches the ax out of its case on the wall to sever the few links trapping Tom around the pipe. He practices twice against the mahogany chest in the corner of the room, trying to strike the same spot twice and failing. With each hit, Tom can’t help flinching, picturing the worst. Well, Tom might lose a limb tonight as well as his life.

He closes his eyes when Will pulls his arms back to swing, but the thunk of the metal ax hitting the pipe between his hands— the sudden range of motion Tom finds he has— makes him cry out in relief. He’s free and miraculously has full access to all of his limbs still.

The two of them only stand to appreciate Will’s handiwork for a moment before Will’s grabbing at Tom’s wrist and pulling him out of the room and through the quickly rising water.

The stairwells this low in the ship aren’t terribly crowded anymore, but at least they’re still above water for the most part. The adrenaline still thrumming through Tom’s veins allows him to climb quickly without immediately feeling the ache no doubt settling into his muscles. The ship is sufficiently leaning now though— to the bow if Tom trusts his sense of direction. Few words are exchanged, but Tom readjusts his grip on Will’s hand as they climb, not willing to let go and lose the other boy again. The loss might actually kill him this time.

The grand staircase, crowded with elegantly dressed people only hours earlier, is now nearly overrun with panicking passengers— most of whom still look like first-class passengers. Tom noticeably only sees a few third-class individuals, and he wonders where they’ve shoved those unfortunate people. Tom wonders for a horrifying moment if Cooke is with them. There isn’t enough time to worry about that for now though.

“Where is your family, Will?” Tom murmurs, eyeing the people with life vests thrown over their evening and nightclothes.

“They’re up top. Grace and my mother were getting on a boat when I left them. I was never getting on a boat anyway.”

Tom goes to say something in reply, but then a shout, deep and masculine, emanates from across the atrium. Ice shoots down Tom’s spine at the voice. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals exactly who he doesn’t want to see right now— Edward, livid and wild-eyed with Lovejoy at his side.

“William! You will not do this to my family!” If his facial expressions weren’t enough to tip Tom off, Edward  _ sounds  _ angry. Will stops walking for a brief beat, but Tom pulls him forward and to the side, ducking behind the forms of a pair of well-dressed men. It’s a good thing he does too, because apparently Edward has a gun, and he’s firing it at the two of them.

Tom twists his head back again to confirm that the gun is clutched tightly in Edward’s hand. A new kind of fear,  _ on top of  _ the ship sinking, bears down on Tom. Edward having a gun changes things, certainly. Passengers around them scream in fear and horror as the gun goes off again, everyone trying to duck out of the way to avoid another life-ending problem.

The wooden sculpture at the end of one of the grand staircase’s banisters explodes with a shot as Will and Tom try to shove past people who’ve become overwhelmed in the chaos. Tom thinks that if he and Will get out of this whole thing alive, Tom’s going to take him far away from this crazy-ass family. 

Two more shots are fired before they manage to locate another stairwell at the opposite end of the room. A distant hope that Edward’s shots haven’t hit anyone flashes through Tom’s mind as Will shoulders through the door and into the stairwell. 

Instead of climbing up and leading Edward onto a full outer deck, they descend quickly, hoping to lose Edward down where he won’t dare go. Going lower though means getting closer to the rising water. It means possibly getting trapped. Every bit of what self-preservation Tom  _ does  _ have screams at him to turn around, but Will continues down two more decks, and Tom would follow him anywhere.

The water rises as they go lower, and down on D deck, it’s waist-high. Tom can’t help but gasp at the feeling of the ice-cold water as it soaks through his trousers and begins to soak through his shirt. They have to push forward though.

This much water certainly prevents them from moving quickly through the corridors, and as they approach the rear of the ship, Tom starts to see other passengers grouped near one of the rear stairwells. 

They’re clustered around a doorway, which is never a good thing. There’s shouting, but there’s so much of it that Tom can’t pick out any individual remarks in particular. He’s about to just wait in the back of the crowd to get a sense of the situation and sort out the confusion, but Will has more pressing matters on his mind.

Will shoulders through the crowd of people, Tom close behind. What greets them at the front of the crowd has Tom’s heart dropping in his chest. In front of them is a metal gate closed and locked with a crewman standing on the other side. He’s yelling at them to go down to the other end of the corridor to one of the other stairwells— this one is closed for maintenance, he says. Does he know that the bow is sinking? Does he know that by directing people that way that they might not, no,  _ probably _ , won’t make it back above deck? Have they closed the gate on purpose to lessen the third-class passengers they’ll feel obligated to save?

“The bow’s going under, we can’t go that way! Let us through!” Will shouts.

The shouting does nothing through, the crewman finally making an abortive and somewhat apologetic gesture before running up the stairs. From just standing there for a few minutes, the water has already risen a few inches, the cold creeping up Tom’s torso.

Above them, the lights flicker and the third-class passengers around them begin to panic more so than they already had been. Several people begin to shake and rattle the gate blocking the stairs as if enough force will tear it from its moorings. They only get so far though before another panicked crew member climbs the stairs from a lower deck and freezes when he sees the scene before him.

Someone yells for him, begs him to let them through, and somehow, like a gift from God, the guy pulls out a ring of keys from his belt with shaking hands and tries to let them through. The act of finding the proper key takes a few minutes, and Tom can tell that he desperately wants to leave them, to save himself, but bless him, he stays until the proper key slides home. Will and Tom proceed to help to slide the gates open before making their own getaway.

The rush of people is borderline dangerous, so Will grabs Tom’s hand again and they push their way through the near chest-high water before they can take the stairs two at a time. Unlike before, they don’t stop at the grand staircase, but rather climb all the way to the open air of C deck.

If the grand staircase has been chaotic earlier when Tom and Will had briefly passed through, the upper decks are borderline apocalyptic. Tom can barely hear anything Will’s saying to him through the din of everyone shouting. Distantly, Tom thinks that he can hear the sound of a string quartet playing, but he can’t see anything but a few lifeboats already floating on the water below.

_ There aren’t enough lifeboats _ , runs through Tom’s mind as he takes in the crowded decks. At the time, the fact sounded bad but seeing the sheer number of people gathered up top really sends the message home. Most of these people are going to die.

By now, the boat is solidly angled down with the bow sinking beneath the waves, the stern slowly rising. From their position toward the back, Tom can practically see down the whole length of the ship due to the incline. To think, Will and he had been at the other end just hours prior without a care in the world— apart from Will’s family. Now though, the place where Will had kissed Tom sweetly is quickly filling with water.

“Tom, we need to get to the back of the ship and stay on for as long as possible.”

Tom doesn’t have enough time to ponder how he ended up in this nightmare, fighting through people afraid for their lives, to stay on a sinking ship for as long as possible. It makes sense because Tom would like to minimize the amount of time he has to spend in that frigid water to as brief as possible. Another ship must be on its way to pick up survivors by now— they just have to stay alive for long enough to meet it.

Somehow, they manage to make it to the stern, the incline of the ship increasing practically with every push forward. A few people trip and fall, sliding down the deck, but Tom isn’t brave enough to glance down and follow their trajectory— he isn’t brave enough to see where they end up. Right now, he watches Will and tries to stay on his feet.

Apparently, Tom and Will aren’t the only ones who have the idea to get to the back of the ship and hang on to the railing there, because there’s a remarkable amount of people already back here. They shove their way in, and Tom’s amazed at his brain’s decision at that moment to bring up the memory of his and Will’s first meeting back here at this railing. He decides to keep the thought to himself.

Up here, now that he’s solidly next to Will and not moving from where he’s grabbed ahold of both Will and the railing, Tom can, unfortunately, see where the falling and sliding people go when they lose their balance. If they’re lucky, they slide right into the water, missing the parts of the ship still above it— a lot of people don’t appear to be that lucky. He can’t dwell on it though and decides to watch Will’s increasingly worried expression.

Just as the ship’s angle gets steep enough that Tom and Will contemplate crawling over the railing as a few other passengers have already begun to do, a sound so earsplitting that Tom will never forget it so long as he lives fills his entire world. A groan so loud and morose, as if God himself were crying out for their lives, comes from somewhere below.

A few seconds elapse following the start of the groaning before the ground feels like it’s quite literally dropping out from beneath Tom. The stern of the ship is falling back into the water, but Tom notices with horror that the bow of the ship isn’t. It hits him in that instant that the ear-splitting groan was that of the ship quite literally splitting apart.

Some of the people who had already climbed over the railing are none too gently shaken off now as the stern goes horizontal again. Tom’s teeth slam together, his knees almost buckling under the impact of the ship hitting the ocean surface. They only have a moment or two to stare at each other in amazement before the stern starts to make itself vertical again.  _ This is it, _ Tom thinks, suddenly more afraid than he had been the entire night. Nothing can amount to watching his seemingly inevitable death approach quicker than he’d ever anticipated.

This time, when the ship begins to rise, Tom and Will climb over the railing and brace themselves against the movement of other passengers to prepare to jump from the ship.

They have limited time left together at this point, so Tom turns to look at Will and sees the other already doing the same. Tom’s heart seizes because he’s not strong enough for this. It’s not fair that he’s only gotten to know Will for two days, only got to kiss him and feel him a handful of times. Tom wants to wake up next to him after satisfying nights of sleep— he wants to spend years with Will. For now, he’ll have to settle for the squeeze of Will’s hand in his as the North Atlantic grows closer.

Tom hasn’t heard Will speak in what feels like hours now that when he does, it takes him a second to realize what Will is saying. “Right before the last of the boat goes under, we’ve gotta jump from the ship. If we get caught in the water around it as we go down, we’ll get sucked down with it. You’ve gotta swim, Tom, no matter how cold the water is.”

Tom can do little else besides nod and breathe in and out as the seconds count down until they have to jump.

Unfortunately, the time comes quicker than Tom would like. Even though they jump two or three seconds ahead of the ship submerging, it still feels like Tom’s being pulled down impossibly far with the mass of the stern.

The water pressing against Tom makes him feel like he’s been submerged into an ocean of knives— everywhere it touches makes him want to cry out, but he’s still underwater, and to cry out would be to inhale the frigid salt water. So instead, he follows Will’s instructions and kicks as hard as he can through the water in the direction that he desperately hopes is up.

If Tom had hoped that the air would be better than the water surrounding him, he’s wrong. Breaking the surface is almost more painful, the rush of cold air feeling like a brick wall against his face. For the time being, Tom’s alive, and he doesn’t stop moving so as to try and keep himself that way. The other people who have survived the sinking are screaming around him, but he adds his voice to the chaos anyway, calling for Will when Tom doesn’t immediately see him in the water next to him.

Within a few moments, Will swims up behind him looking cold and wet, but  _ alive _ .

The water is so cold that Tom barely has the brain function to do more than stay afloat. The two of them find a piece of wood— maybe it was a door, or perhaps a piece of paneling from one of the first-class cabins that had come loose when the ship snapped in half. It’s large enough that Tom thinks they can both fit on it to get out of the water enough to slow down hypothermia— prolonging a freezing death for long enough to wait for rescue is the goal.

As soon as Tom’s out of the water, his teeth start chattering, which does not bode well. Tom and Will don’t say anything for a couple of minutes, afraid that any sudden movement will send their makeshift raft capsizing. Silence though means that they have to listen to the shouts and screams of the remaining passengers flailing in the water around them.

“Hey,” Will whispers soon enough, his own voice shaking around chattering teeth. Tom turns and sees that his lips are already turning blue. “We did the har-hard p-part. They’ll be c-coming b-back for survivors now, shortly. We’re almost there.”

Tom nods and moves his hands to cover Will’s own, the handcuffs still adorning his wrists scraping against the wood. Will’s right, but Tom tampers the sliver of hope he feels at his words. He can’t bear the thought of getting his hopes up only to have Will be proven wrong. They’re together though, and that’s what Tom focuses on at the moment as he leans forward and presses his own cold lips to Will’s fingers in a fruitless attempt at warming them up.

“I’m so g-glad you c-came and found me. I didn’t want to die alone handcu-cuffed to that pipe.” If they’re going to die, Tom at least wants Will to know that he’s thankful for the stupid and heroic action.

“You’re not dy-ing, do you hear m-me? We’re make-making it out of this. The lifeboats are c-coming back. We’re going to New York together. You’re not-not gonna leave me with Edward alone.”

“How-how would Edward have ma-made it off the ship?”

Will sounds like he’s trying to laugh then, but it comes out as a more aggressive clacking of teeth. “He’s Edward. He’s like a c-cockroach— he can survive any-anything.”

Tom finds himself laughing too because it seems like an apt description. Before he’s able to respond properly, a particularly violent shiver travels through his body. “That s-sounds like a p-plan to me.”

They drift into silence, a silence though that isn’t quite silent because of the people around them. Tom tries to will himself to talk about something, think about  _ anything _ , but he can’t focus on anything but the cold. He tries to remember how warm he felt surrounded by Will in that car hours earlier, but the cold invades the memory, taints it. So, he stops thinking. Tom instead focuses on Will’s face, on the way his eyes look like they’re beginning to lose clarity. A renewed spark of fear travels through him at that. 

The silence between them slowly permeates their surroundings over time. Tom tries not to think about why the other passengers have stopped yelling, but he knows well enough.

Later still, Tom hears the distant shout of a male voice. The part of his brain that’s most likely shutting down thinks for a moment that Edward’s found them again.

“Will,” Tom murmurs, moving his thumb to sweep across Will’s knuckles. “Will, I think someone’s coming.”

Will hums, interested and thankfully still awake across from Tom. Will’s eyes clear just enough. There are virtually no other voices still making noise around them. “Lifeboats?” Will croaks, voice rusty like it’s not been used in days. Tom tries not to think about the fact that it could be his body freezing from the inside out.

Pushing himself up slow and gentle enough so as not to tip them off the makeshift flotation device, Tom tries to get a better look at where the voice is coming from. Sure enough, Tom sees a lifeboat heading in their direction with a spotlight attached to the tiny bow and two crewmen at the helm.

He can’t quite make out what they’re yelling, but Tom wrenches one of his frozen arms above his head, the frozen fabric cracking in the silence, to wave them over as best as he can. It’s a sad excuse for a mayday plea, but it has to work.

“We’re here.” His voice croaks the first few uses, his own vocal cords evidently more frozen than he’d initially thought. After a few tries though, Tom manages to get his voice loud enough— his arm raised high enough— that it catches the attention of the man in charge of the spotlight.

Tom swears at that moment as the crewmen pull both Will and him out of the water and into the sparsely populated boat, that he sees God in these men. They’re there to wrap dry coats and blankets around them, pulling them out of their soaked ones to try and warm them up. As they get warmer, the shivering comes back, but the people in the boat are there to help it pass.

Through it all, Tom can’t take his eyes off Will, convinced that if he looks away, the other boy will disappear into the water. He’s afraid that Will isn’t alive and still somewhat of a warm body— that the pulse Tom feels thrumming in Will’s wrist where he still clutches is just what he wants to be there. Despite the reassurances, Tom doesn’t let go of his hand— can’t— and the crewmen don’t say anything, most likely assigning the interaction a far more trivial meaning than it is.

Will murmurs to him through his chattering teeth and violent body shivers that he’s okay, that they've made it over one more hump. They’re safe. Tom lets him continue, because if Will’s talking, then Will’s alive.

Their lifeboat only manages to pick up two other passengers, the boat following picking up another. It’s only at that point that the cost of life is truly staggering. For the first time, Tom feels despair so overwhelming that he nearly releases a sob into their quiet surroundings. One of the men tells Tom that it’s only been a little more than forty-five minutes since the ship sank when they call off the search and make their way back to the other lifeboats. The water is below freezing, someone says, no one else will be alive unless they’d managed to find flotation as he and Will had. At forty-five minutes though, Tom doubts the accuracy of that statement. Even now, Will looks exhausted— he doubts the boy would’ve lasted another ten.

When they rejoin the other lifeboats, their boat gets a few new passengers, wonderfully warm and dry, to crowd in and warm them up. Tom doesn’t recognize anyone and Will doesn’t say if he does or not. All that matters at that moment is that they’re blissfully  _ warm _ .

And then around an hour later, lights appear almost out of thin air— the lights of another massive ocean liner. To think their salvation would come in the form of another ship is almost funny enough to laugh. Will must see the ship as well, because Tom feels the former squeeze at his hand, a silent promise and reassuring weight.

The ship’s name is Carpathia, and it actually turns out to be slightly smaller than Titanic, but it’s bigger than their lifeboats, so Tom doesn’t complain. They throw open a door about halfway up the side and unfold rope ladders for the passengers to climb up. The effort of climbing a rope ladder turns out to be different beyond comparison. A part of Tom wonders if it'd be easier if he weren’t half frozen still.

Up in what looks to be a cargo hold, crew members are passing out extra blankets and hot tea— an accommodation Tom will forever be grateful for. Along with the ordinary crew members, there looks to be a few medical staff ready to treat anyone who needs it. He wonders if they realize how few people will require their expertise.

The doctor looks him over since he’d been in the water, but ultimately they tell him to drink some more tea and then find somewhere warm and dry inside. Will, on the other hand, is deemed to need further medical help and is directed to the infirmary. Dread floods through Tom at the prospect of being separated after all they’ve been through, but the nurses shuffle Tom away before he can cause too much of a scene. Rationally, Tom knows it’s over— they’ve lost each other again, and this could likely be the final nail in the coffin. It’s too much to ask fate to throw them back together for a third time in three days.

Tom spends much of the next day inside curled up near a radiator, so drained of emotion that all he can do is sit and stare at the people passing him. A crewman comes around at one point to take his name, and Tom stops him as he begins to walk away to ask if he had a ‘Charles Cooke’ written down. The man searches but solemnly shakes his head. Tom can’t even find it in himself to be upset at the moment. Of course, Cooke wouldn’t have made it. There’s no point in dwelling on it though— on dwelling on any of it.

Tom tries to venture down into the infirmary area to find Will a bit later, his blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, but the nurse can’t tell him anything, and unless he’s sick, she can’t let him in. Because there’s nothing else to do at that point, Tom walks the ship, looking at everyone’s faces, desperately hoping that Will is one of the lost looking faces. He thinks he sees Grace at one point, but she’s gone when he blinks.

He’s alone, more alone than he’s ever felt, on a boat to America with no possessions and no friends. At least his mother and brother will be relieved to hear of his safety, even if they weren't aware he was ever in danger.

The Statue of Liberty, imposing and reverent on her island, greets the passengers of the Carpathia as she sails into the harbor. It’s not as joyous an occasion as it should be; Tom’s standing out in the rain, alone, and wishing he were anywhere else. He wonders if Will is watching the same view from somewhere on the ship, but Tom’s stopped looking for him. At this point, Will almost feels like a figment of his imagination— would think so too if he didn’t have the physical reminders of their time together every time Tom looked at his reflection.

Everything from here on out is met with a somber stare. The public has already learned of the disaster, so there aren’t eager and cheering families when they dock. Tom’s given temporary accommodation and a way to get necessities before he’s being shooed away and told to get back into contact with White Star Lines in a week.

Tom wanders, lost. He sends a telegram to his mother and to Joe, and then he goes to his accommodation to sleep for the next few days. Right now, he can’t do much more than exist. The list of people he’s lost has become extensive, so for now, Tom commits to surviving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate you so much if you've gotten to this point. The epilogue will relieve some of this bittersweet ending I've created here. Yes, it did kill me to write it this way, but those I discussed the plot with decided this would be more impactful. Don't hate me.


	4. Epilogue- December 1916

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it! We reached the end!  
> This update is a day early and significantly shorter than the rest, but I just wanted to end the bitterness with a bit of sweetness because these boys deserve happiness.  
> Thank you for coming on this journey with me, it was a labor of love. I want every single person who gave me a comment or a kudos or a bookmark to know that I appreciate them so so so much, and feedback and enthusiasm keep me going on a daily basis. This last one is for you guys.
> 
> Now without further ado...

_ "Her eternal summer smile is breakin' my defenses and I know / Damn well won't find no peaceful sleepin' with no her up in my head / Caught me by the collar at the graveside / 'Neath the sky of royal blue / Like you're sayin', 'I'm here now'" _

-" _Without Fear",_ Dermot Kennedy

Tom still has nightmares about drowning every one to two weeks. They wake him up, often short of breath and far too tangled in his sheets. The nightmares seem to go through a rotation of horrors from that fateful night. Sometimes Tom’s in the water with the other screaming passengers, other times he’s trapped in the master-at-arms’ office handcuffed to that metal pipe as the water rises around him. Rarely does he see Will, though sometimes Tom wishes his mind would grant him one last look. While the nightmares may change, every time he wakes, he’s alone in his apartment in New York, and when he moves home— back to the people who can understand him— he wakes alone in his small flat.

The nightmares continue to plague him, though he’s very well aware that he’s not the same person in 1916 as he was back in the spring of 1912. Tom’s not the only one to notice that he’s changed either— four years later, his mother still looks at him with pity in her eyes, as if she knew he lost more than just a friend in the wreckage.

After arriving in New York, the remainder of 1912 had passed relatively unremarkable. Tom had found a job and moved downtown, stayed in the city to be around people like himself. He lasted about two years living day to day— only looked for evidence of Will once or twice. There were a few other boys, all of whom had suspiciously resembled Will in their stature or in their features. Much like Tom always anticipated, no one came anywhere near the real thing.

When the war broke out in 1914, Tom had scrambled home. Now, finally in 1916, Tom is sitting in the rear of a troop transport convoy heading for the front. The December winds that roll across the French countryside are bitterly cold, and while Tom’s not the youngest among their ranks, somehow he’s drawn the shorter straw to be on the end.

The transport drops them off at the edge of an encampment, and if Tom didn’t know better, he'd think the war was a breeze. Around them are tents and a fair amount of trees. Men are sitting next to smoldering fires looking a bit rough for wear, another is hanging washing up on a makeshift clothesline. Tom knows better though, knows that they’ve been let off at the back of the line— among the reserves.

A slightly unshaven and grumpy-looking man greets them— well, in what is probably the barest estimation of a greeting. He tells them his name is Sergeant Sanders, and then he assigns them to their tents and platoons, which hold two each. The crowd around Tom disperses, but Tom stands in his spot for a few minutes to take it all in.

It’s taken Tom two years to get here. It’s an oddly fulfilling moment even if he knows deep down that war will be hell. He’s read what Joe’s written to him from the front over the last two years, but the need to do  _ something _ is too great to just sit this one out. Tom had spent the first ten months of the war trying to get home from America— four to get his affairs in order and then because of the winter, another six and a half to give the icebergs time to melt a bit. From there, it’d been ceaseless training, all leading up to this: standing in the reserves on the frozen ground with the mundane sounds of trench life filling his ears.

Eventually, Tom’s feet work, and they carry him in the direction of where Sergeant Sanders said his tent would be. When he pushes back the tent flap, he’s somewhat surprised to only see one soldier with his back turned toward him, helmet on the bed next to him and in the process of unclipping his kit from his shoulders.

“Everyone’s in the mess tent already.” It’s a simple sentence, but the voice sends a chill down his spine so cold and violent that Tom thinks he’s back in the North Atlantic for a split second. It’s been four years, and his mind might not let him relive the good parts much, but he’d know that voice anywhere.

“Yeah, I’m one of the replacements, and this is my tent. Sergeant Sanders just assigned it to me.” He tries not to let his voice shake, but Tom’s on the brink of a breakdown all of a sudden. Tom watches the soldier’s hands— a Lance Corporal judging by the chevron on his arm— still, his head raises sharply before he’s turning around with wide eyes.

Will Schofield stands before him in a tent, in the frozen French countryside, in the middle of a war. He looks exactly like Tom left him four years ago, though perhaps a bit rougher now than he had in his first-class suits. His hair is cut shorter, his cheeks a bit hollower, but his eyes just as sad as they had been then. Tom’s eyes flit down to his left hand unbidden, though he sees no gold band decorating his ring finger. Tom’s own breathing goes shallow at the sight of it all. 

He can tell that Will is taking him in just as intently, eyes traveling up and down Tom’s figure. It’s too much and not enough. Tom wants to rush forward and pull him into a fierce hug, but it’s been four years; he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. Will had been a ghost to him by 1913, and now here he was again in all of his glory in an environment where Tom can’t even properly celebrate their reuniting. 

“Tom,” Will breathes. Tom wonders if Will even realizes he says it aloud.

Despite what he tells himself, Tom unclips his own kit and lets it fall to the ground near the bed to the left of the tent opening, setting his gun and hat onto the bed itself. He wastes no time in walking across the room to pull Will into a tight hug.

The firmness of Will both holding Tom up as well as practically collapsing into his arms is overwhelming. Tom never thought he’d get to have this again, never thought he’d be able to even see a picture of him again, and now, here Will is, clutching at Tom’s shoulders and around the back of his neck with what feels like most of his strength. Tom holds on just as tight. Even though they’ve still got too many layers of clothing on to properly fit against each other, Tom feels more comforted and whole than he can remember being in the time since they’d last seen each other.

Tom involuntarily lets loose a sob from his throat, four-year-old memories rushing back to the surface of his mind again. He remembers the good ones— the euphoria of kissing Will at the bow of the boat, of having sex in a stranger’s car while running from Lovejoy. With the good memories come the bad ones though. He remembers the terror and panic of losing Will and finding him, only to lose him again to the clutches of his family. It all nearly overwhelms him, so Tom does what he can and grips at Will even tighter.

“I tried. I tried...I tried,” Tom begins to ramble when Will pulls him back to arm’s length to properly look at him. “I tried to look, but I couldn’t find you. And Cooke—” His voice breaking cuts him off, and Will leads him to sit on the camp bed next to them.

Will shushes him, and while Tom might get annoyed by anyone else doing it, Will’s voice comforts him as he pulls Tom back into a semblance of a hug. “You did everything right. I’m sorry about Cooke— I know how much he meant to you. My mother kept me in the infirmary when she found me and kept me there until we docked or else I would have come to find you. I would have torn that boat apart to get to you. The healthy dose of pneumonia that I got from spending time in the water certainly didn’t help though.” Will’s voice is so thick with emotion that Tom desperately wishes they weren’t in the middle of a war zone. He feels renewed anger towards Will’s mother, but the time for anger has passed. There’s nothing they can do about it now, four years on. The most Tom can do now is take advantage of Will in front of him, regardless of location. Tom laments the idea that they could be interrupted at any moment, that they don’t have nearly enough time for almost anything he’d want to do to Will.

“And now?” Tom manages, leaning away from Will and wiping his eyes on the backs of his hand. He catches Will grinning at the movement, and something inside of Tom lifts.

“I would still rip apart a ship to find you, Tom Blake.”

Tom closes his eyes and gets lost in the feeling of Will’s hand coming to rest against his cheek.

  
  


Days later, they’re sitting off on their own under a large tree, a tiny fire with hardly more than burning coals at the bottom of it warming their feet. It hadn’t taken long to see that Will was a loner among his own men, and it didn’t take too much thought as to the reason why knowing what he did of the Somme. The other men must also know why because no one seems to openly question his bouts of self-imposed exile— an aspect Tom is grateful for.

During their exile from the rest of the company, Tom and Will don’t talk much, and they certainly haven’t talked much about those few days four years prior yet. Eventually, though, Tom decides to bring it up as Will dozes against a tree trunk. 

Tom doesn’t know if Will is really sleeping, but he looks peaceful regardless. He looks almost as if he could be at home, sleeping under a tree behind his house, not out in a warzone. The lines are gone from Will’s forehead and a few stray flames from the fire briefly light up his face. Tom almost feels bad for disturbing the quiet, but the irrational part of his mind nags at him more than the rational part right now. He’s tired of guessing, he wants to just  _ know _ already.

“Did you marry her? Grace?” Tom broaches, quiet enough that it hopefully won’t wake Will if he’s truly sleeping. He’s watching Will’s face for any change in expression, though he doesn’t get one.

A beat passes, and Tom thinks that maybe Will has no intention of answering him. But then, “No. After Edward shot at us by the grand staircase, it wasn’t very hard to stand my ground. My mother still wasn’t too pleased since, in her words, Edward wasn’t the one I was marrying.” He opens his eyes and glances over at Tom, his gaze heavy. Tom feels a swooping sensation in his stomach at the look that makes him blush. “I saw you looking for a ring on the first day you were here.”

Ah, so he  _ had  _ seen that. Tom wills himself not to be embarrassed at the callout. “I could say the same about you, you know.”

“Yes, but we aren’t talking about your potential love life. I didn’t marry anyone because they weren’t you, and you were all I wanted.” Will says it so matter of fact as if it were obvious that a boy he knew for a little over forty-eight hours would ruin all other partners for him for the rest of his life.

Tom wants to say something, anything, but his throat suddenly feels tight at the sentiment. What happened to Will happened to Tom. Partners came and went, but none of them were ever Will Schofield. No one ever made him feel anywhere close to how he felt those couple of days with Will. Tom’s voice won’t work though, so he resorts to nodding, hoping that will get his point across. The point he wants to scream from the rooftops. He wants to yell:  _ “Yes! There’s never been anyone else, and I think it’s because I was in love with you—  _ am  _ in love with you.” _ Instead, Tom remains silent and reaches out to grab Will’s hand and squeeze it.

“I’m not leaving you again if I can help it. If you’ll have me.”

It sounds like a proposal, and it very well might be for all Tom knows. Even all these years later, Tom finds that he’d follow Will anywhere, so he says yes. He says, “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Tom didn't die on April 6, 1917, yay!  
> For real though, thank you again if you made it this far on this journey with me.   
> If you want to come scream with or at me, I'm on Tumblr @kolyarostovs

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, you made it! Thank you so much for giving me a chance, and drop me a kudos or comment letting me know what you thought!  
> You can also come scream with me on tumblr @ kolyarostovs.tumblr.com


End file.
